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SOUTHLAND STORIES 


BY 

JAMES B. HODGKIN 

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THE JOURNAL PRESS 
MANASSAS, VA. 
1903 






111 Sxchrtnge 

Jk.viHY And Navy Cl' 1 '* 
Of Wasiiinarton B-C* 

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TO 

MY CHILDREN, 

FOR WHOSE ENTERTAINMENT MOST OF THESE 
STORIES WERE WRITTEN; AND TO 
THE MEMORY OF THE 

“OLD VIRGINIA,” 

NOW BECOME ONLY A LEGEND IN HISTORY, 


THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 


























































































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PREFACE 


As “The Randolphs,” “Chief,” “Sam” and 
the others of the coterie pass out of my hands 
and into the world of letters, to be swallowed 
up in the whirling, surging crowd of “short 
stories,” I feel a natural concern for them, 
knowing, possibly better than the reader, their 
weaknesses. I only wish to ask the reader to 
remember that I am not a professional story- 
writer, and that these sketches of mine have 
been written amidst the taxation of a toilsome 
professional career, often penned when too ill 
to work. 

It is not likely that the average reader com- 
prehends, or indeed can comprehend, how abso- 
lutely real to him the creations of a writer be- 
come. To-day I can shut my eyes and see 
“Chief,” with tall hat and banded insignia of 
his office as hotel-porter, and hear his gruff 
voice; Julia Randolph’s hair is even now fall- 
ing down; Sam is grinning sheepishly, while 
John Temple is carrying his half-fainting sweet- 
heart in his arms; Nedmonds’s friend is sitting 
by the camp-fire, telling his story over again, 
and the deep, musical voice of “The General” 
sounds sweetly on the night air — would we 
could hear it still — and the faithful wife is 
standing outside the cave-door, with the blue- 
eyed girl by her and the baby boy in her arms ; 


Preface. 


while Jack and Nan, under the star-lit sky are 
wondering over the foundling babe. 

They pass and come again — they fade like 
the aurora borealis, and I am all alone ! Very 
real, very dear are ye, children of my fancy. 
May at least one lesson be learned of you by 
those who chance to read. Truth, faith, honor, 
a firm belief in the nobility of a simple, pure 
life. 

Hero-worship? Well, yes. Next to God- 
worship I hold it is the most ennobling. When 
the South forgets her heroes, then indeed will 
her degradation have come; and every man 
who fought was, at least to his wife and chil- 
dren, a hero, worthy of worship; every woman 
who suffered and prayed, should be worshipped 
by all true men. I, for one, have taught my 
children that their most priceless heritage is 
that they have lived in a day when true hero- 
ism was at least still told as the one thing worth 
inheriting, most worshipful ! It is to record 
what I feel to have been the best and purest 
acts of those who fought and suffered — and may 
I add the best and purest men and women the 
world has produced, that I have written these 
stories. Many of them lived, the prototypes 
all existed, and I feel sure that our Southern 
people at least will recognize characters they 
knew and loved. 


THE AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Randolphs 3 

Chief 49 

Will Nedmunds’s Christmas .... 72 

Sam’s Courtship 105 

The Story of a Violet 121 

Christmas Eve 125 

De Profundis 133 

The Old Choir-Master 163 





































































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THE RANDOLPHS. 


r I ^HE Randolph mansion was much like a 
hundred other old houses in the Piedmont 
region of Virginia. Back of it towered the 
Blue Ridge, in front rolling slopes and foot- 
hills in descending terraces, a receding vista of 
plantation and forest, with mountain streams 
trickling down to join other mountain streams 
and these in inosculate embrace joining still 
others, until at last a great river far away rolls 
down to meet the ascending arm of the sea, an 
arm reaching out of the broad Atlantic, where 
salt and fresh water meet in the low, sandy 
tide- water region. 

In the foreground are seen a lawn with native 
trees, and here and there a green-leaved, white- 
blossomed, perfume-scattering magnolia grand- 
iflora. At the bottom of the lawn was a small 
running stream, beyond this a flower garden, 
with prim rows of evergreen box-wood, and an 
arbor of Virginia creeper and trumpet vine, 
and still beyond a vegetable garden, and then 
spreading out almost as far as the eye reached 
fields of corn, wheat and patches of tobacco, 
while towards the house ran a long lane of 


4 


Southland Stories. 


cedars, marking the carriage-road leading to 
“Briarwood.” 

The porch in front of the mansion is much 
like many seen in Virginia — wide-floored, with 
columns reaching from floor to roof, giving an 
air of strength and solidity. The prospect from 
this point of view widened to many miles. Sit- 
ting there in the shade is a gentleman of fifty 
years, beside him a matron perhaps ten years 
younger. He, as he rises and stands erect, look- 
ing down the lawn, is fully six feet, strong and 
firm-looking on his feet, with iron gray hair 
and short moustache, a keen but kindly eye, 
and complexion much bronzed by exposure, but 
naturally dark. 

The lady is just the opposite in make-up, with 
blue eyes, fair hair, a little too stout for grace- 
fulness, and with that subdued, patient, slightly 
worn expression so frequently seen on the faces 
of Virginia matrons of her day — marks made 
by many slight and greater cares — of husband, 
children, servants, to say nothing of the hosts 
of visitors at Briarwood. 

Running up the winding path, leading from 
the garden, come two boys in their “teens”; 
one, the younger, the image of his mother; the 
other as like his father; both laughing, scream- 
ing, shouting; and behind them a girl, she still 
younger than they, wondrously like her father, 
with a wealth of long, dark hair, streaming be- 


The Randolphs. 


5 


low her waist, and with big blue eyes, in hue 
like the violets blooming down by the stream 
at the foot of the lawn. Of dark complexion 
she, but not too dark to light up with color 
when occasion comes. Behind these, Sam, 
black of skin, with shining teeth, grinning 
broadly, and slapping vigorously at some insect 
enemies swarming about his woolly head. 

A foot catches in a creeping briar vine and 
headlong falls Julia in the grass, roaring with 
fright and pain, to be set on foot by Sam, her 
brothers rallying gallantly to her aid now that 
they see she is in trouble of their making. 

“Dem boys is jes’ too mischev’s fer ter live. 
De done stir up de was’s nes’, en red was’s is 
jes natchel pizen fighters — wuss’n yaller jack- 
ets; en Miss Jule, she did’n run quick ’nuf, en 
she git stung, slio. ’ ’ 

Thus Sam, while Julia’s mother takes her in 
her arms, albeit a rather big armful, and soothes 
her sorrows, while Billy, the fair-haired, makes 
a mud poultice, famous always for allaying the 
pain of wasp-stings. 

Enters on the stage the last of the dramatis 
personae: A tall young man, rather pale and 
somewhat thin, with a quick gray eye, a firm, 
decided mouth, thin lips, ready for a smile that 
does not just come, and a strong, character- 
making nose. 

“Time for lessons, Miss Julia, Master Dave, 


6 


Southland Stories. 


Master Billy,” so spoke Mr. Archie, the teacher, 
and all four disappear in a building called an 
office, set in one corner of the lawn — called 
office, because Mr. Randolph, in his younger 
days was supposed to have used it when he 
practiced law — now used by Mr. Archie (Henry 
Wayte Archie, he used to sign himself in mak- 
ing out reports and papers) as a school room. 

Mr. Archie was from Maryland, away up in 
that part of the state where the Blue Ridge 
towers high and where the Potomac begins to 
trickle out of the gorges, and meeting other 
trickling streams, flows past little towns and 
hamlets to be swallowed up at last by the tide- 
water, meantime gathering affluents from other 
mountain streams. He hadn’t the Virginia 
speech, so said Sam, but said “card,” instead 
of “cayard,” as was the pronunciation in the 
Briarwood country. But for all that he was a 
perfect gentleman, so Mrs. Randolph said, 
accomplished, and a first-rate teacher; and if 
Dave and Billy and Julia did not learn it was 
not for lack of skill or knowledge in the teacher. 
He was a rather quiet, undemonstrative gentle- 
man, holding much the same political ideas as 
Mr. Randolph, and sometimes on the porch af- 
ter dinner he would talk political science in a 
way that quite astonished the latter. 

He intended studying medicine, he said, and 
made no secret of the fact that he was teaching 


The Randolphs. 


7 


Only to get a little ahead financially. He had 
had but little aid in his early education — he 
rather hinted than said this — -but the boys and 
Julia looked on him as possessing the wisdom 
of the ages, excepting of course, their father. 
Mr. Archie never talked about his family, or 
home, and in this he was unlike the average 
young man, that is if such have any family to 
talk about; and one day a drover, picking up 
cattle in the neighborhood, professed to know 
that Mr. Archie’s father was a wretched old 
drunkard, sick in a hospital in Baltimore, and 
that his son sent his earnings from time to time 
to keep the old man out of the charity ward. 

Mr. Randolph heard all this at the post office, 
second-hand, and sternly rebuked the news- 
monger, one of the “poor white trash” of the 
neighborhood. 

“How dare you, Sir! slander a gentleman. 
You know nothing whatever of this young man, 
and you come here mouthing somebody else’s 
lies ! Shut up. Many a man’s been horse- 
whipped for less than you have said.” 

Of all this Mr. Archie heard nothing, and he 
would needs be a brave man to repeat such gos- 
sip to him; but went on teaching the boys and 
girls as efficiently as ever. 

The home-teacher was a well known and im- 
portant character in Virginia, many a lad and 
girl obtaining about all the education they pos- 


8 


Southland Stories. 


sessed in this way, and in any event laying the 
foundation for a university training. 

School opens and Mr. Archie took up algebra. 
Dave said he could do it with his eyes shut. 
Billy thought it was a little tough, but he made 
a fairly good record. To Julia it was as un- 
meaning as an Egyptian hieroglyph or an 
Aztec inscription. She just couldn’t ! 

Reading next. Dave saw no sense whatever 
in the passage. Billy thought it might be sen- 
sible, but it was not practical. Julia was at 
home now. 

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; 
pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, 
that’s for thoughts.” And she, who had never 
seen a play in her life, sprang to her feet, her 
great wealth of hair falling about her waist, 
and then crouched low in the corner and wrung 
her hands as wildly and much more naturally 
than most stage Ophelias, sobbing and moan- 
ing out: 

“He’ll never come back again.” 

Then, springing to her feet, she seized Billy 
around the neck and sobbed on his breast as if — 

“He’s gone; he’s gone,” sure enough; while 
Billy, shaking her off, exclaims: 

“Jule, I believe you have gone crazy! Just 
look at my necktie !” 

The color comes in Mr. Archie’s pale face. 

“You’ve not seen plays, you say, Miss Julia?” 


The Randolphs. 


9 


“No, sir. I saw a crazy girl once when they 
were taking her to the asylum, aftd I’ve seen a 
funeral, and I have played crazy just for fun.” 

Mr. Archie’s fine eyes shone with admiration. 
“A great gift, Miss Julia* a rare gift. I am 
much astonished at it !” 

“Then one day Mr. Archie read for them, or 
recited, after trying very hard to get Billy to 
say the lines in a somewhat different style from 
calling his dogs — the lines that have been the 
ambition and the despair of many a student of 
the great bard — - 

“To be, or not to be.” 

And as Mr. Archie stood in the corner of the 
room, he looked as if he saw no one, saw no 
room even, was looking into futurity, and see- 
ing things yet to come. His tall form dilated, 
his fine eyes flashed, and as he spoke of taking 
“up arms against a sea of trouble,” after suffer- 
ing “the slings and arrows of outrageous for- 
tune,” Julia sat with wide eyes and open 
mouth — breathless. Then, when he drew an 
imaginary dagger from his breast and “threat- 
ened to make a quietus with a bare bodkin,” 
she shrieked aloud and covered her face with 
her hands. 

Billy said he looked as if he might cut him- 
self sure enough, and Sam, who had come in 
with a fresh bucket of water from the spring, 
actually declared that he saw the blood. Julia 


10 


Southland Stories. 


said that she was so scared she nearly had a fit. 

All of which home events, carried forward by 
vernal and autumnal equinoxes, and summer 
and winter solstices, bring around a time when 
Julia has her wealth of hair tucked up in imi- 
tation of her mother’s, and her skirts have sud- 
denly grown from knee to ankle, and she stood 
forth in the framework of life’s events, a very 
glorious picture of sixteenly beauty, than which 
no fairer sight is vouchsafed to us coarse, mor- 
tal men. And Mr. Archie took in the picture, 
with all its latent wealth of beauty and lova- 
bility, and womanliness — took it all in just as 
if it might, some day, belong to him. Surely, 
it must belong to somebody soon — it was too 
rare a thing to go unclaimed of an owner. And 
from a longing for the picture, he began to 
think of the possibility of some day owning it. 

No little courage, Mr. Archie, for this. The 
Randolphs are the proudest of the proud, de- 
scended from the aristocracy of old England, 
and as exclusive as a walled city. But courage ! 
Mr. Archie, for walled cities have gates which 
sometimes open, or can be scaled, or dug be- 
neath, and are they not unlocked sometimes 
with a golden key ? Only Mr. Archie had no 
key of gold, nor likely soon to own one; nor, 
indeed, would it be likely that the Randolphs’ 
fortress would open to such; for they had never 
really cared for money, were not at all rich; 


The Randolphs. 


ii 


and, indeed, the plantation in those days hardly 
made a living for all. Many of the slaves were 
old and decrepit and had to be taken care of, 
and no Randolph had ever been known to sell 
one. 

And now the boys had to be sent away to 
school, and Julia to Mrs. Bagby’s celebrated 
academy in Fredericksburg for the finishing 
touches, without which no Virginia young lady 
was supposed to be educated and accomplished. 

No, Mr. Archie had no gold key, and he would 
be lucky if he made enough teaching to get 
him through the medical college, but he in- 
tended to master that profession if he had to 
scrub for it. 

So he braced up like a man, and seeing no 
immediate way of prospectively possessing this 
fair goddess, lie was fain to be content with 
worshipping it afar off, he, meantime, being 
near the end of his last school term. 

>1? Sjc ^ 

This is the Randolph carriage at the door. 
It is Sunday, and the family are faithful church- 
folk. In the carriage are Mr. and Mrs. Ran- 
dolph, Julia and Billy. The latter is no sooner 
seated than he scrambles over Julia’s feet, to 
the great indignation of that young lady, to 
clamber up into a sulky driven by Mr. Archie, 
while Dave, with a brand new saddle and 
bridle, is riding in a very resolute manner a 


12 


Southland Stories. 


colt that is resolutely determined not to l>e 
ridden. 

All at church, and Mr. Ridout, the rector, is 
not there, having sent a note by a servant that 
a parishioner in the upper part of the county is 
dead, and he has to attend the funeral. Mr. 
Randolph, senior, reads the service, very 
gravely and reverently, being a lay reader, 
regularly appointed by the Bishop of Virginia. 
Julia plays the organ and sings very beauti- 
fully, to the great admiration of Mr. Archie, 
who joins her with a very good tenor voice to 
a tune they had practiced at home, and to the 
great envy of Mr. Jack Coleman, who can not 
sing, but who can and does worship Julia all 
unseen from his place in the gallery, until he 
gets courage to move to the front seat; and just 
once, possibly twice, Julia lifts those wonderful 
violet eyes of hers gallery-ward, long enough 
for Mr. Jack to be electrified from crown to toe, 
and in the enjoyment of which music and eyes 
he would gladly have set with his feet in the 
stocks and thought it joy and gladness. Mean- 
time he is casting triumphant glances at Mr. 
Mason Nelson, who has ridden twelve miles 
over the mountain to attend the worship — of 
Miss Randolph l 

And now the service is over, very orderly 
and reverent it all is, each worshipping after 
his fashion; Julia worship by at least a half 


The Randolphs. 


13 


dozen of the young gentlemen of the neigh- 
borhood, and the Randolph carriage goes home 
with its occupants. Mr. Randolph is on the 
box with black Peter, the driver, and inside a 
young lady, a cousin of Julia’s, who is to make 
a visit of uncertain duration to Briar wood. 
Visits in those days were like the coming and 
going of comets — difficult to calculate as to 
period. 

On their return Mr. Jack Coleman rode his 
horse on one side of the carriage and scraped 
his toes dreadfully against the wheel, trying his 
best to get closer than Mr. Nelson Mason on the 
other, and Mr. Nelson Mason came near getting 
black Peter’s whip-lash in his eye. Julia made 
eyes at both very shyly, when her mother was 
not looking, and these young gentlemen fought 
duels with their eyes across the space between 
them, and little Lucy Locke wondered mentally 
why those boys wanted to talk so much to Julia 
and not to her ! Is not all this written in the 
chronicles of the Randolph family ? Or if not, 
it will not be now. 

And who could tell of the conferences be- 
tween Julia and her cousin in the depths of the 
night, when tired people sleep and young girls 
grow confidential ? Of all this no record is 
kept, for although the moon has a face it has no 
ears, and so can not listen. 

And when Julia’s maid brought in the fresh 


H 


Southland Storxes, 


spring water — a big bucketful — on her bead, and 
put it down by the washstand, she had in her 
fingers a slip of a note addressed to ‘‘Julia,’* 
written with great labor by Mr. Nelson Mason, 
over which the wicked Julia and Miss Locke 
laughed. Julia slipped the note into her bosom, 
to take it out at breakfast when Mr. Nelson 
was handing her the cream. He knew it was 
his because he recognized the perfume of the 
paper he had used. Then, cruel Julia tore it 
into little scraps, right before his face, saying 
in the most demure way — incorrigible Julia — 
that she must write to Mrs. Locke that very day 
and answer her letter. Meantime Mr. Mason 
has scalded his mouth with hot coffee and takes 
a certain interest in Billy’s setter dog, which 
sat by longingly asking for bones, with eyes as 
soft as even Julia’s. 

The Sunday dinner being a thing of the past, 
Mr. Randolph blew a key-bugle, at the sound 
of which summoning call troops of blacks 
gathered around the porch, to whom, or with 
whom Mr. Randolph reads the evening service, 
and all sang, not only the set pieces of the 
church, but hymns as well, singing as only the 
blacks could. After which Mr. Randolph reads 
a sermon out of Thornton’s Family Prayer, 
and so the end, so far as his conduct of the 
service, for black Peter steps to the front and 
his big voice takes up the ‘ ‘Te Deum Lauda- 


The Randolphs. 


i5 


mils.” Such rolling music from nearly a hun- 
dred throats, in exact time, as only natural 
musicians can ! Then the oldest of all old 
hymns — the “Gloria in Excelsis,” and the final 
— “for thou only art holy, thou only art the 
Lord” — the great chorus swelling and pealing 
upwards, far towards heaven, it is hoped. 

Mr. Randolph spoke and thanked them for 
the singing and hoped that they would remem- 
ber the sermon. 

* * * ^ * * 

So Dick must get him a razor, and begin 
that labor of shaving which, when begun, ends 
not on earth, save with a full beard, never seen 
in the Randolph family, war-time only ex- 
cepted. And Sam brings sundry jugs of hot 
water, and Dave’s face is greatly lathered, and 
Billy lugs in an old cat with a suggestion that 
her rough tongue might take the place of the 
razor; whereat Dave drops his brush and rushes 
at Billy and both fall on the bed, Billy’s face 
coming in for a good share of the lather, and 
to the detriment of the feline, she being between 
the combatants, gets, as is usual in such cases, 
the roughest of the fight. 

But very soon Billy has a razor, and is in turn 
teased by Dave, who is making a race with the 
latter for the possession of a moustache, which, 
like most inheritances of minors is, so to speak, 
in reversion. 


16 Southland Stories. 

/ 

Julia made sport of both cultures, and told 
an exceedingly ancient story of the young man 
who asked his girl if she did not think his 
moustache was becoming, and who got for a 
reply, that it might be coming but had not yet 
arrived. 

Mr. Archie did not grow a moustache. Billy 
said he could grow a heavy beard if he chose. 
Dave had an idea that it might be red, and so 
Mr. Archie kept it in retirement; whereat Julia 
waxed fierce and nearly came to blows with 
Dave, she declaring that the poorest thing that 
Mr. Archie had was superior to Dave’s best, 
except, the Randolph name — that was, of 
course, better than all the Colemans and the 
Lees, and the Gordons and the whole tribe of 
cousins of the Randolph family far and near, 
of high and low degree; and then she whis- 
pered in Miss Locke’s ear that she thought that 
Archie was too pretty a name for anything ! 

Meantime Miss Julia, the artful, pondered all 
these things and many others in her little heart, 
and made eyes shyly at Messrs Coleman, Mason, 
Archie and others, and kept all these strings to 
her bow, twanging each one at a time or all 
together, just like any other young lady with 
big violet eyes and beautiful hair would have 
done, and have done, I suppose, in all days. 

And no doubt if Miss Eve had had half a 
dozen Adams to choose from instead of one 


The Randolphs, 


i7 


single Adam, she would have kept them danc- 
ing to a very anxious tune for some time; nay, 
possibly setting them to fighting about her. It 
is the way of the sex, you know. 

^ * * * * * 

Harvest at Briarwood and the wheat stacked. 
The great thrashing machine is running and 
Mr. Randolph is looking to see if all is in order, 
when crash went a nail through the cylinder 
and a bit of splinter lodges in Mr. Randolph’s 
eye. He tied his handkerchief over the wound 
and said it was nothing, but the blood trickled 
down on his cheek and Sam ran to the house to 
tell. Mrs. Randolph came very quickly, and 
much against his will Mr. Randolph was forced 
to go in and have his eye inspected by Mr. 
Archie, who had been reading medicine and 
was looked upon by the family as quite an au- 
thority. He told Mrs. Randolph and Julia they 
had better help him, one by getting a bottle of 
lotion on the bureau from his room, and the 
other by bringing some hot water; but as soon 
as the door was closed behind them he quietly 
but firmly told Mr. Randolph that all the 
lotions in the drug store could not help the 
eye, as the splinter had gone right through the 
ball. Whereat Mr. Randolph said ‘ ‘thank you, 
sir,” as politely as though he had done him a 
favor. 

But it was much worse than even Mr. Archie 


1 8 Southland Stories. 

thought, for so great was the injury that Mr. 
Archie said they had best get the doctor right 
away. When he came, he shook his head and 
said he feared the nerve was injured and that 
both eyes might go, the sound one from sym- 
pathetic irritation. And that same day went 
a swift messenger to the railroad station and a 
telegraph message to Richmond, and two days 
later a handsome young gentleman stepped off 
the train and took a carriage which was wait- 
ing to carry him to Briarwood. 

This was a young surgeon, but wonderfully 
skillful, who had already a name over half the 
professional country, and was, as stated above, 
as handsome as could be. 

Dr. Retinus was taken in, after an introduc- 
tion to the ladies, to see Mr. Randolph and con- 
sult with old doctor Pettus, the family physi- 
cian, and over the case they talked long and 
earnestly, and thence to the dining room to 
lunch. But while at this Dr. Pettus told Mrs. 
Randolph as gently as he could that an opera- 
tion was an immediate necessity in order to 
save the other eye, which was becoming rapidly 
involved. Otherwise Mr. Randolph would lose 
both eyes. 

In the operation Dr. Retinus met but one 
difficulty which had not occurred before in his 
practice. Mr. Randolph would not take an 
anaesthetic. The doctor told him that such an 


The Randolphs. 


19 


operation — the removal of the entire eye — was 
of all things the most delicate, and it was abso- 
lutely necessary that the patient be absolutely 
quiet. But Mr. Randolph thought he would 
not move, called Sam to lift the lounge to the 
window and laid himself down on it as quietly 
as though he was going to be shaved, much 
to the wonder of the great surgeon, but not so 
greatly to the wonder of old Dr. Pettus, who 
had long known of what stuff the Randolphs 
were made. For had not Mr. Randolph, when 
the new well was being dug, and the sides caved 
in, burying poor Tim Luckett under piles of 
rocks and lumber, seized the rope and slid 
quickly down, so swiftly as to tear the skin 
from his palms, and stood there lifting the 
rocks from the half-buried man, piling them in 
the bucket, calling on the men above to hoist 
away, and ended by tying Luckett to the rope 
and having him pulled to the surface, half dead, 
and last of all being hoisted himself just as the 
caving in began afresh ? And Tim Luckett was 
nothing but a “po’ free nigger, either,” said 
Sam, and did not even belong on the place. 

The young surgeon staid a day or so, just to 
see that the case was on the right road, which it 
soon was; for, as Dr. Pettus said, the Randolphs 
were made of such fine stuff that they almost 
got well of themselves. Meantime Miss Julia 
kept out of sight, as much as she could, and 


20 


Southland Stories. 


did not even make eyes at the doctor, only be- 
ing revealed to him as a vision of rare beauty 
with violet eyes, as she came out of her fath- 
er’s room in the very early morning, with her 
wealth of hair down to the waist, and her shoes 
unfastened, having been in to carry him a cool 
drink. She had no idea that Dr. Retinus was 
up, and scurried away as fast as her little feet 
would carry her, actually slamming her room 
door, and said “impudent, to catch me that 
way. How was I to know that he was up at 
that time of the morning,” she said, talking it 
over with Miss Locke. And here was another 
gross idolater, bowing to an idol, not of wood or 
stone, but a most wonderful revelation in flesh 
and blood, worshipped in all ages and in all 
countries; and but for the fact that Dr. Retinus 
had a sweetheart already in Richmond, no one 
will ever know to what extent he might have 
neglected his practice in that fair city; and even 
as it was he professed to see a cloud on the cor- 
ner of Mr. Randolph’s other eye, and thought 
it was as well to add a day or so to his stay at 
Briarwood, meantime forgetting altogether the 
commandment “Thou shalt have no other gods 
before me,” and went on worshipping two fair 
goddesses at once. 

Mr. Randolph fully recovers, and in due time 
makes a visit to Richmond, pays Dr. Retinus 
his fee, and comes back with a glass eye, so 


The Randolphs. 


wonderfully constructed and cunningly inserted 
that Sam declared he could see through the 
horses’ ribs and tell if they had been fed. 

^ ^ 

Mr. Tom Pendleton from Accomac, across the 
Chesapeake, and a far away cousin, came on a 
visit to Briarwood. He looked down on Mr. 
Archie quite disdainfully, or thought he did, 
though Sam said that Mr. Archie had “mo’ 
sense in he leetle finger den Mr. Tom Pendleton 
had in his whole haid” ; and so one fatal morn- 
ing Mr. Tom precipitated a crisis by getting 
drunk and insulting Mr. Archie, styling him a 
poor white Yankee, who had to teach school 
for a living, and whose father never owned a 
nigger in his life. Whereat Mr. Archie, having 
first escorted Mrs. Randolph and Miss Julia in- 
side, very promptly knocked Mr. Pendleton off 
the porch. 

It is said that fortune favors the brave, and 
although possibly it might have been braver 
for Mr. Archie to have left Mr. Tom Pendleton 
on his very unsteady legs, yet he scored one 
with Billy, who applauded greatly and said he 
served him exactly right, and he was only sorry 
he did not hit him harder. For Billy was just 
wrapped up in Mr. Archie, as is every boy over 
whom his teacher has real influence. Dave was 
a little inclined to be of the opinion, partly 
possibly for the sake of being on opposite sides 


22 


Southland Stories. 


from Billy, that, no matter what might have 
been the provocation, the fact that Mr. Archie 
was “on a salary” made him — well, not exactly 
an equal socially. 

And Mr. and Mrs. Randolph worried no little 
about it, and wished greatly that Mr. Pendleton 
had put off his visit until Mr. Archie had left, 
which would have been in a few weeks at most. 

Meantime Mr. Archie went to his room and 
was putting his things together, and called 
Julia’s maid and asked to see Mr. and Mrs. 
Randolph, to whom he made a very short little 
speech, indeed, simply asking if Sam could 
take him to the stage road that night, as he 
was going away. Mr. Randolph asked him 
very kindly and courteously if he had not bet- 
ter remain until his term was out, and Mrs. 
Randolph begged him to overlook poor foolish 
Tom Pendleton’s doings, and wouldn’t he stay? 
But when she saw that look about Mr. Archie’s 
mouth, she gave it up, for she had seen that 
expression on the Randolph face more than 
once — it was a sign hung out for all to read — 
it meant no ! 

Mr. Tom took himself off to the stable and 
told Sam, and nursed his skinned elbow and 
swore about it not a little, and Sam hitched up 
the buggy with very reluctant fingers, for he 
just doted on Mr. Archie, and held Mr. Pendle- 
ton in profound contempt. 


The Randolphs. 


^3 


Julia’s maid had told her all about the case 
(Julia had of course heard the insulting words) 
and laughed over the way Mr. Tom fished him- 
self out of the honeysuckle vine, and said his 
“breaf smelt jes’ awful wi’ dat cheap sto’ 
whiskey,” and Julia felt as though she would 
like greatly to be a Miranda to a certain Ferdi- 
nand, and tumbled all over the bed in her dis- 
tress at Mr. Archie’s going — -“just as I was 
learning a little of that horrid algebra, too, and 
he was showing me how to do Beatrice like he 
had seen it.” And she rushed down stairs to 
her mother’s sitting room ready to pull Mr. 
Tom’s hair as savagely as a robust girl of six- 
teen was able. 

But her mother was not there, and she almost 
fell into the arms of a certain gentleman, pale, 
tall, dignified, and whose voice shook a little: 

“Miss Julia, I suppose you are aware that I 
leave to-night?” 

Julia was not aware of it — so she stoutly de- 
clared. She probably knew her maid well 
enough to be aware that she fibbed sometimes, 
and then — well, people do not believe things 
they do not want to any way — that is an ever- 
day thing. But she was so excited and worried 
that she forgot her hair, which hung down just 
like it did when she read Ophelia. Mischievous 
Julia ! Do you know just how fascinating and 
altogether worshipful you are with your hair 


24 


Southland Stories. 


down in that way ? And are you really and 
truly setting your cap for Mr. Archie with 
those violet eyes ? 

Mr. Archie’s stern mouth relaxed. “I see no 
other way,” he replied. “It is very sad, and 
troubles me greatly, but I can not see how to 
continue my teaching with this state of things 
on hand. I fear my work at Briar wood is 
ended.” 

“Would you stay if I sent cousin Pendleton 
away?” Julia had no doubt of her ability to 
do that. 

“No, Miss; I can not see how that would help 
matters; besides he is a guest of the family, 
and I — am only a poor teacher.” And Mr. 
Archie tried to swallow a lump in his throat 
that would not stay down, but kept rising up. 

Julia was looking at a picture on the wall. 
It was that of a gay cavalier of the olden time, 
with his arm around a slender lady’s slender 
waist. 

She turned those wonderful violet eyes ask- 
ance on him. (Sam said he believed she could 
see behind her.) Wonderful, swimming eyes ! 
Wicked Julia ! Then she looked at the toe of 
her shoe and said to it: 

“Would you— would you— stay — if I asked 
you to ?” 

O, Julia, Julia ! Dropping matches, lighted 
matches, in shavings and straw and such com- 


The Randolphs. 


25 

bustibles ! Did you really think that they 
would not catch and blaze and burn at a white 
heat? No, I dare say, not. But who of the 
feminine sex, with long, black hair and violet 
eyes, and all the glory of blossoming sixteen — 
who would not have tried the matches just a 
little ? 

Behold now Mr. Archie worshipping his idol— * 
an idol that had just spoken and by inference 
asking the adoration and the falling down to. 
He made his first love speech, entirely im- 
promptu, very brief, and to the point. No 
record of it made in the Randolph archives. 

And Julia was frightened beyond all words 
at the blaze the one little match made, and 
tried to put it out, and burnt her fingers in so 
trying. 

And the picture on the wall of the slender- 
waisted lady and the gay cavalier looked down 
on a picture in the middle of the room very 
like it, when 

“Well, upon my word, young man !” And 
Mr. Randolph, senior, enters the room, grim of 
face and decidedly sarcastic in tone. Where- 
upon, at the special emphasis on the syllable 
“word,” Julia took flight in a very cowardly 
and base desertion of Ferdinand, leaving Pros- 
pero to deal with him as an angry Prospero 
might. 

Both gentlemen were very dignified and po- 


20 


Southland Stories. 


lite, and no one could have judged by their 
voices that a deadly duel of words was going 
on. The upshot of which duel was that Mr. 
Randolph hurts his wife’s feelings dreadfully, 
and for the first time in his life, by telling her 
that she was entirely too careless with Julia, 
and ordering Sam to have the buggy ready for 
Mr. Archie when he called for it. And he sent 
the boys away with an enigmatical note to a 
neighbor, five miles away, with instructions to 
bring the answer, which note being very am- 
biguously worded, both boys and neighbor 
spent the evening over it, and the former con- 
cluded to stay all night and dream out the 
answer. 

Meantime Mr. Archie packed up his little 
things, looking awfully glum and fierce, and 
when Mrs. Randolph, the good-hearted, rapped 
at his door, he was half a mind not to let her 
in. Then he changed his mind and did let her 
in, and sat on the bed and actually cried; and 
she said “poor fellow!” and tried to comfort 
him just as she had tried to comfort other peo- 
ple in other troubles, only not having the right 
sort of balm of Gilead, it smarted the sore and 
hurt it all the worse. 

And is it you, wicked Julia, who, minus shoes, 
so that you could creep cat-like in your stock- 
ings — was it you that creaked the plank in the 
hall floor and set your little heart beating so ? 


The Randolphs. 


27 


Was it you who stood at the crack of the door 
and heard it all, and sniffled to yourself like a 
little repentant sinner, and when you heard a 
step inside ran to your room like a mouse with 
a cat after it, and fell down on the bed and 
eried and cried, and then got up and shut the 
door so your mother could not hear you, and 
thought of Julia with Romeo banished; and 
then taking a sudden thought arose as quick as 
a flash, dressed yourself, put up your glorious 
hair, tied on your walking shoes and met your 
innocent mother in the hall ? She was going 
to see old Patty-poor old rheumatic, bed-rid- 
den Patty, And what should she carry her ? 
And Mrs. Randolph loaded a basket for Patty, 
and Julia called her maid and walked to Patty’s 
and sat down on the style and waited. 

Ah, Julia ! when you dropped matches and 
kindled a fire of that sort, did you really start 
a duplicate fire in your own tender breast? 
Such fires spread rapidly and the brighter they 
burn the more they do burn. And is it you, oh 
Julia, blowing the sparks and watching it blaze ? 
It looks so. For Mr. Archie, in the buggy 
with Sam, saw a fair vision on a style leading 
to Patty’s manse, and told Sam — wicked Mr. 
Archie — you playing with the fire, too ? — that 
he would like to walk a little, and Sam could 
drive on — he would overtake him at the ford. 

And Julia and Mr. Archie walked up the road, 


28 


Southland Stories. 


mighty slowly, she with her hand on his arm 
and the violet eyes doing their work. And Sam 
said, the next day, that “he done missed de 
stage — him and Mr. Archie — dat she wuz full 
two hours ahead o’ time by de moon, and Mr. 
Archie done took a trip t’wuds Warren ton 
erfoot, and tell him ter sont de trunk by the 
nex’ stage.” 

But Sam did not tell that Mr. Archie and Miss 
Julia walked to the ford, and walked up and 
down in the path leading to the mill, and it 
grew so dark that Mr. Archie could not think 
of allowing Miss Julia to walk home by herself 
with only her maid, and how he stood at the 
garden gate like Maud’s lover, and watched the 
lights in the house, and saw his Maud — that 
is — Julia, go in, and he shut out in the cold, 
cold world, and only that fire to warm him 
which came from that dreadfully carelessly 
dropped match of Julia’s. 

I, the chronicler, might have, if I had the 
fine fancy, made a beautiful picture of all this, 
and possibly of Mr. Tom Pendleton challenging 
Mr. Archie, or even Mr. Randolph, senior, 
threatening him with a horse whip, but as none 
of these things happened, and as what I tell 
did, the truth must prevail and the record 
stand. It is best to tell the plain truth even 
about Julia Randolph. 


The Randolphs. 


29 


Our Julia is again in Fredericksburg, at Mrs. 
‘Bagby’s school for young ladies, and her mother 
goes with her and returns to Briarwood with a 
new set of false teeth, made by the renowned 
Dr. Forceps, which she could not wear except 
in company, and which she carried conven- 
iently in her key-basket until they got broken; 
and Julia had two teeth filled by the same cel- 
ebrated doctor, to her great pain. And Billy 
goes to the University to study law, and Dave 
passes an examination which admits him to 
West Point. 

And one fine day Julia put a little letter in 
the post office at Fredericksburg in direct vio- 
lation of Mrs. Bagby’s school regulations. It 
was addressed to the care of the dean of the 
medical college in the city of Baltimore, and 
not a single girl in Mrs. Bagby’s school, if they 
had known of it, would have ever told Mrs. 
Bagby a thing; and, indeed, I hardly think Julia 
told any girl about it; for the matter was grow- 
ing serious, this fire-flame, and like a deadly 
disease, the more serious, the more closely hid- 
den. And in due time an answer came back, 
directed — oh, heartless Julia ! to “Miss Julia 
Atwater, General Delivery, Fredericksburg, 
Va.” And Miss Julia Randolph acted the part 
of Miss Atwater charmingly, only she forgot 
when the postmaster asked what name, and said : 
“Julia Randolph,” and then turned very red 


30 


Southland Stories. 


and stammered — “I mean Atwater,” whereat 
the postmaster laughed and said that it was no 
wonder young ladies forgot their names, seeing 
they kept them such a little while. And Julia 
ran off as fast as her little feet could carry her 
and sat down on a bench in the railroad station 
and read her letter, just like you or me, had 
we been Julia and had an Archie, would have 
done. For, big as the world is, the people in 
it act much alike under the same conditions. 

% % sfc 

And the wheels of time fly, and Dave has 
spent his required time at West Point and is 
appointed to a Lieutenancy in the United States 
Army, while meantime Billy gets his degree in 
law at the University, and Mr. Archie is the 
elated possessor of a diploma from a medical 
college entitling him to “practice medicine with 
all the rights, titles and privileges appertaining 
thereto.” And just a little later he stood a 
successful examination for the position of sur- 
geon in the army, and is not assigned to the 
same command as Dave’s, as you expected me 
to say. 

Now the rumblings of war are heard in the 
South and echoed in the North, the stern prep- 
arations by both are being made, and Mr. Ran- 
dolph, senior, who has been representing his 
State in the Senate of the United States for the 
past four years resigns, and Virginia is medi- 


The Randolphs. 


3i 

tating secession, and so the face of history 
changes and clouds overcast the scene. 

Will Dave come home ? Will Lee resign ? 
Will untold things happen ? Will Mr. — Dr. 

Archie ? But Julia had come back long 

before this; and behold all the worshippers of 
this fair goddess had on gray suits and sat on 
horses, and wore sabres. As for Julia she was 
quite sure that every man in the regiment com- 
manded by brother Billy was brave enough and 
strong enough to overcome a thousand, and 
that Billy was going to be the greatest soldier 
in the Confederate army: she meantime being, 
so far as looks went, fitter than ever to be set 
upon a pedestal and worshipped by the whole 
regiment. 

Mrs. Randolph and Julia are sitting in their 
room talking, the gentlemen of the household 
being away of course. It is Julia who is 
speaking. 

“Mother, dear — I — I think Mr. Archie has 
been gone now for three years.” 

‘ ‘Is it so long as that, Julia ? How time does 
fly ! I am getting so stout. Do you know, I 
declare, I got out one of my old waists the 
other day and it would not meet by ever-so- 
much.” 

“Yes, I know, mother, dear — but you are 
always the same dearie, dearie, dearie old 
mother, arn’t you, now?” 


32 


Southland Stories. 


This with sundry hugs and kisses. 

“Oh, of course, Julia, but what on earth put 
you in mind of all that — I mean, what put Mr. 
Archie into your head ?’ ’ 

“Mother, dear” — the artful Julia — “do you 
think if I had happened to have met Mr. Archie 
at the White Sulphur last summer it would 
have been wicked?” 

“Wicked ! why, no, Julia, what put that 
question into your head ? Mr. Archie was 
always a perfect gentleman, and I was always 
glad to have you and the boys under him.” 

“1 did not say I did see him, did I, mother 
dearest?” 

“Dearie mother” — sly Julia — your arm is 
around mother’s neck and grows tighter still — 
at some mischief, Julia, as sure as fate — “I did 
see him there.” 

And Julia is smothering her mother with 
kisses. “Mother, dear, I was so sorry for poor 
Archie when he went away.” 

“So was I, my child, but I thought you had 
forgotten all about that. What made you think 
of it just now ?” 

“Because, mother, dearie, dearie, dearie 
mother, you don’t seem to understand — I was 
so sorry for Mr. Archie, and I am so sorry for 
him now, and” — talking very fast, indeed, and 
holding very tight to her mother’s neck — “I 
am afraid, mother, if I had not encouraged Mr. 


The Randolphs. 


33 

Archie, he would not have felt it so — the going 
away.” 

“Well, my dear, what has all this to do with 
Mr. Archie now?” 

“Because, mother, dearie, Mr. Archie is com- 
ing on the next stage to see us,” with which 
iteration and many blushes, Julia darted out of 
her mother’s room and into hers, and straight- 
way looks in the glass to see if her blushes are 
becoming, and decides that she has not lost a 
bit of her attractiveness — vain Julia l 

Mr. Archie came. He asked for Mr. Ran- 
dolph; he asked for the young gentlemen. Mr. 
Randolph was away in Richmond on important 
business of state. Mr. Billy and Mr. Dave had 
gone hunting away the other side of the moun- 
tain. Mr. Archie was sorry, though no very 
great grief was written on his brow. Mr. 
Archie was here, too, on important business 
and must go back on the next stage. Mrs. 
Randolph goes out to see about lunch. Julia 
steps out from behind the window curtain — 
Polonius was stabbed there, behind the arras — 
and so Julia, for the very first sound of Mr. 
Archie’s voice smote on her ears with a great 
singing noise so that her knees became weak 
and she had to hold by the casing of the win- 
dow until the dizziness passed, and the fatal 
dart went right through her tender little heart, 
so that she had not the wit even to be coy, but 


34 


Southland Stories. 


wept so for joy on Mr. Archie’s bosom that she 
spoiled all of his white shirt front. 

Mrs. Randolph came back, as far as the door, 
and saw the grand tableau; and it was the old 
picture on the wall, of the cavalier and the 
slender-waisted lady, but she did not say — 
“Upon my word, Sir !” In fact she slipped out 
as softly as she slipped in, before either of them 
noticed her, so much for felt slippers and con- 
siderate feelings. 

But possibly she might have said, “Upon my 
word, Sir,” but that a month before Mrs. Ran- 
dolph had a long letter from her cousin, the 
Lieutenant-Governor of Maryland, saying that 
he had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Archie, 
a very talented young gentleman and bidding 
fair to be at the very front of the medical pro- 
fession, and that finding he, the Lieutenant- 
Governor was related to the Randolphs, he had 
asked him to write to Mrs. Randolph and relate 
a few facts concerning the Archie family, their 
early history, ancestry, etc. And he had 
learned that the family was of very distin- 
guished lineage, indeed, of Huguenot extrac- 
tion, and had been driven out of France during 
that dreadful persecution, settled in Scotland, 
intermarried there with a Scotch family of 
noble descent, and that he had altogether a 
pedigree as long as the king’s. 

All of which information, Mrs. Randolph had 


The Randolphs. 


35 


duly treasured up in her heart and sent to her 
husband, who was in Congress, and thought it 
best to say nothing to Julia about it, at least 
for the present. 

For Mrs. Randolph had been over all that 
road herself years before, when she was young 
Julia, and she knew that Mr. Archie would 
come back just as all brave, true lovers do. 

And Mr. Archie came, and went the same 
night; and Julia leaned over the balcony — I 
mean out of the window, and Romeo talked 
back at her from the buggy, not caring if Sam 
did hear, and told her she would catch her 
death of cold, until Sam actually drove him oif 
in the midst of a sentence, for fear they would 
miss the stage. Meantime Julia came back 
into the light with something wonderfully 
bright flashing on her finger, a ring that had 
come down in the Archie family for no one 
could tell how many generations, a slender gold 
ring; and the diamond in it outshone even the 
famous eyes of the beautiful Julia. 

But oh, what is this little casket, which Mr. 
Archie put in Julia’s hand, as he came away? 
Something of which he said that it had been 
preserved in the family since their ancestors 
had fled from France, and that that and the 
ring was all that was left of a treasure almost 
of royal price. And now see the fair and vain 
Julia opening the box, and thinking of Portia’s 


36 


Southland Stories. 


casket; and, my ! the likes of which had never 
before dazzled the eyes of simple country 
Julia — a beautiful diamond cross, encrusted 
with rubies and pearls, and interwoven with 
tiny gold flowers — a wonder of art, indeed. 
Julia had never seen such before; but with fem- 
inine instinct she knew its use, and in a twink- 
ling it was out of the box and the chain around 
her fair neck, with the cross on her fair bosom. 
And as she stood there with her long hair down 
to her waist, it was a sight for the moon only 
and Julia’s maid, who danced about the room 
in an ecstacy, declaring that Miss Julia was 
“jis’ too lubly fer anything in de worl’,” and 
wondering how the diamonds would look on 
her black neck. 

'f* 'i- 'i- 

And now came trouble sure enough. Dave 
had written that he had decided to remain in 
the army, and not resign and come home, as so 
many were doing. He hoped the trouble would 
soon blow over, and even thought there would 
be no war. It was mostly brag and bluster he 
wrote, and he went so far as to say that if 
those wretched abolitionists and fire-eating 
South Carolinians could have a good thrashing 
it would end the whole business. And even 
while his letter was being read at home Lee 
had resigned, and the state of Virginia had 
passed an ordinance of secession. 


The Randolphs. 


37 


Old Mr. Randolph came home a badly shat- 
tered man. He had fought against secession 
and clung to the Union; and now it seemed to 
him that his life had turned out a failure. His 
son Dave, whom he doted on, was in arms 
against his native state, a colonel of infantry, 
U. S. A. ; and Billy, in all the glory of strong 
young manhood, was a colonel in the Virginia 
State troops. Billy rejoiced in it, as all strong 
and lusty young men do always, who snuff the 
battle from afar, and cried “Aha ! Aha !” and 
have in all days. 

It is in the blood — young blood — fiery blood, 
and no sort of reasoning takes it out. A strong 
man takes naturally to fighting, and I should 
be in some doubt of his manliness if he did not. 
And you — oh, Julia ! you and the rest of you, 
you hark them on, you know it; and you know 
that no sight pleases you so much as a victory 
for your side, and you would feel mightily 
ashamed of brother or cousin or sweetheart 
who shows the white feather. 

So there was war, about which this history is 
but slightly concerned, only caring for Dave, 
Billy, Mr. Archie, the poor old Senator and the 
ladies at Briarwood. 

A few of the slaves drifted off at the begin- 
ning, but most of them remained, faithfully 
caring for the home people; and though care- 
less and idle, were in the main trustworthy. 


38 


Southland Stories. 


Mr. Randolph told them they had all better go, 
hut they did not, and really food and clothing 
was a serious matter for so many. A Yankee 
camp near by was a real blessing, as they had 
eggs and poultry they could trade for groceries 
and even clothing for the blacks. 

Evidently it was revealed to old Senator 
Randolph by the Divine Revealer of Secrets 
that he had about run his race in life. He 
scarcely realized that war was on and that the 
thirsty earth was drinking up the blood of 
thousands, or that the battle was fierce. He 
knew, as old people do, by a sort of intuition, 
that if he saw his boys again in the flesh it 
must be soon, and he asked piteously for them; 
and yet he had no wit to make plans for this — 
only a longing desire. 

;{c ^ ^ 

Now, Julia, gird up your loins like a true 
woman that you are, and do the impossible. 
Bring the recreant brother Dave, from the 
North, and the brave Col. Billy from the South, 
that the patriarch may see his sons once more 
in the flesh; and oh, Julia — whisper it to your- 
self! and to the faithful Sam; bring doctor 
surgeon Archie, too ! Stranger things than this 
have happened, and are happening every day 
and hour, and why not this ? 

For had not Sam, the faithful, gone into the 
enemy’s lines not once but many times, and 


The Randolphs. 


39 

even carried a little note, written “in great 
haste,” by one of the Briarwood folk, begging 

a certain surgeon to keep a lookout for the 

Virginia boys, in case any were wounded, and 
to make such cases “special”; and if her dear 
brother Billy should be so unlucky as to be 
hurt please to take care of him for the sake of 
old memories (which, being interpreted, meant 
for the sake of Julia). And the note was signed 
by “A Virginia Girl,” which girl seemed quite 
oblivious of the fact that the reference to her 
brother Billy revealed her identity very plainly, 
indeed. 

And Julia, good, pious Julia, went to her 
room and sent up as fervent prayers as any 
saint or martyr ever offered, and having thus 
braced herself for the contest laid her plans 
like the fine feminine strategist that she was. 
For Julia is a Randolph, it must be remem- 
bered, and it is said that the blood of Poca- 
hontas flows in her veins; and when the Ran- 
dolphs set their heads and hearts about a task 
it must be difficult, indeed, if it fail of accom- 
plishment. 

And one day Billy, the Virginia Colonel, was 
greatly surprised at seeing a wagon marked 
U. S. A., C. D., which, being interpreted, meant 
United States Army, Commissary Department, 
break down this side of the river; and just at 
that moment there was a stir among the blue 


Southland Stories. 


40 

coated pickets beyond, and a sudden move to 
the rear, and a wonderful amount of rifle-pit 
digging, and the wagon was left far outside of 
the Union lines. Sam, who seemed able to 
wander indiscriminately around, went over to 
the wagon and returning said that “de warn’ 
nuttin’ de marter wid it, sep’ de lynchpin drapt 
out, en ef he could get er team he mout haul 
her right up to the house. ” And so he did, and 
there was enough provisions in the wagon to 
furnish the Randolph family, white and black, 
for many days. It was told in after years, the 
story, by Col. Dave, as a bit of military strategy 
not reported in the movements of the army of 
the Potomac. 

Sam, one day not long after, took a basket 
with a few eggs and some other “ingrejients,” 
as he called them, over into the Union lines. 
He said they “lef him in ’cause he was a coun- 
terband,” and the eggs and other fixtures went 
to the tent of a certain surgeon who had a keen 
gray eye much like Mr. Archie, but a full beard 
of brownish hue, not like Mr. Archie’s; and both 
eggs and note were duly confiscated by the sur- 
geon and promptly devoured — the note first. 
And Sam brought back the basket filled with 
such things as the Randolphs had in ante-bel- 
lum days and had not then; and a note came 
back, too -not the one that Sam carried, but 


The Randolphs. 


4i 

one in a strong, manly hand, and what the 
note said is for you to guess. 

* * % i'fi % 

“Sam, where is your master Billy now?” 

Thus Julia to Sam aforesaid. 

“Seed er scout yistuddy, at de pos’ offis, ’n 
he say Gin’l Stuart en Marse Billy, beggin’ de 
gen’ls pardon, Marse Billy ’n GinT Stuart, de 
wuz at de cote house campin’. De picket line 
right on the river, en Marse Billy, he reeg’ment 
right on the picket line. 

“How wide is the river, Sam ?” 

“Taint nothin’ tall but a spring branch, just 
de haid water. Miss, you kin mos’ step ’cross ! 

“My colt take me over, Sam ?” 

“L01*’, Miss Julia, your colt, you ain’t thi lik- 
in’ ’bout — why, my Lawd, Miss, ain’t I jes’ tell 
you de Yankees right dar? How you gwine 
to cross de ribber ?” 

“Sam, do you know where the ninth corps 
is — you know what I mean?” 

“Hayar dat same scout say de wuz facin’ 
yeach oder — Marse Billy en Marse Dave.” 

“Sam, what time is it?” 

“By de clock, fo’ o’clock, by de sun, harf 
parst.” 

“Sam, feed and curry the colt and feed the 
mule. Have both at the rack at dark. I am 
going to see your Master Billy, and must go 
to-night. No; not a word; go!” 


4 - 


Southland Stories* 


Sam went to the stable and curried the colt 
to the tune of— “De Marster done lose his 
min’ — Marse Dave done lose his min’ — en gone 
inter de Yankee ahmy ; Miss Julia, she done 
start ravin’ crazy, gwine to that camp; eider 
de’s all crazy or les’ hit’s Sam. Mout be me, 
do, an’ any way what Miss Julia say is de law 
and de testimony.” 

And at midnight Julia and the colt and Sam 
and the mule were stopped by the pickets of 
Stuart’s cavalry, escorted to headquarters, 
where she had a short conference with that 
soldier, whom she had known before and of 
whose courtly qualities all the world has heard. 
She saw her brother Billy and had a conference 
with him; affectionate at first, stormy in the 
middle, quiet at the close; and now, behold 
Julia and Sam, under the escort of two troop- 
ers, approaching the dreaded Union lines, wav- 
ing a bit of white handkerchief, tied to a 
switch — her own; because the general said there 
was not a bit of white about the camp that 
could be told as such — lack of soap and oppor- 
tunity — he said. 

Halt again. White flag waved; troopers ad- 
vance. Col. Billy sits on his horse a little way 
off, at whom a Yankee pickett aims his rifle, 
sees white flag, brings rifle to a rest, looks at 
the woman and the colt — a remarkable hand- 
some thing, the woman; a long tailed thing, 


The Randolphs. 


43 

the colt. The line opens and Julia, the colt, 
Sam and the mule disappear. 

Another tent close by ; at a table sits a very 
perplexed and troubled looking officer. He 
has a map spread out before him, but he is 
miles and miles away from the map in spirit. 
He is preaching a sermon to himself and the 
text is, “What shall it profit a man if he gain 
the whole world” — and lose the respect, and 
love and esteem of brother, and sister and 
father and mother, and neighbor and friend ? 
And he had gotten just so far as to quote the 
words of poor old Woolsey: “I charge thee, 
Cromwell, fling away ambition.” 

“Why, Julia ! What in the world I” Mean- 
time Julia’s arms were around the neck of the 
Colonel, and she was choking him as badly as 
vshe did Billy in the Ophelia scene, in the old 
school-room in the years long gone by. 

Strange scene, indeed ! To-morrow, the 
charge, the battle, the slaughter; to-night, the 
reunion of brother and sister, and in such 
strange fashion, indeed — in perils of night and 
of hostile troops. 

But Julia’s blood was up, and very rapidly 
she tells her story of the failing father, over 
which narration the strong man bows his head 
and groans — meantime Julia’s hair falls down 
in a more cataract fashion than when she and 
Mr. Archie were in the room, and her father 


44 


Southland Stories. 


had come in and said, “Upon my word, Sir!” 
Then here was still another battle — Dave just 
would not send for Archie, and Julia gave it up 
with him, but she had a dozen arrows in her 
quiver; for had not Sam come through the lines 
with her ? And Sam had the programme and 
plan of battle or strategic moves — all explained 
by mental telegraphy — in which occult art both 
she and Sam were past-masters. 

Now Colonel Dave writes a brief note to the 
General. It read: 

‘ ‘ Dear General : — My sister has ridden through 
the lines at midnight to tell me that my father 
is dying and calls for me constantly, saying 
that he must see his boys. You know the 
country — you know my father’s plantation — 
you have been his guest in happier days. Ad- 
vise me.” 

And no more time than it took to ride across 
a field, the General stepped into Col. Ran- 
dolph’s tent and caught Julia sitting in the lap 
of that officer — her hair down, and her arms 
around his neck — in defiance of all military 
regulations. But he was as courteous to fair 
Julia as if she were Joan of Arc, and looked as 
if he would have liked to set his military cap 
at her then and there. 

A ride to the picket line — more halting — Col. 
Billy sitting on his horse a little way off like a 
stone man on a stone horse, only he was smok- 
ing a pipe. See now, this Esau and Jacob 


The Randolphs. 


45 

meet — foiling on each other’s necks and weep- 
ing. 

Really, the first words Billy said was : 

“Got a flask, Dave? It’s deucedly cold out 
here. ’ ’ 

And Dave had the flask, and Billy took a 
good pull at it, too. Something the matter, 
for a horseman rides amain from the Union 
lines, as if to call them hack. A tall man, pale 
where he was not brown from exposure, and 
with a full brown beard, and a surgeon’s case of 
instruments strapped to his saddle. 

Just in time, too; for as sure as parallax and 
other mathematical things, Julia has tumbled 
off the colt in a dead faint at the sight of the 
tall man. Very pat these things do turn out — 
the right man in the right place, and the right 
lady, too. Even she took, after good deal of 
persuasion, a little of the flask; and while the 
two Colonels were vainly trying to draw some 
information from each other as to how the lines 
lay, the wicked surgeon — for shame, Julia ! was 
tasting to see if there was the odor of spirits 
on her lips. 

;{j sfc ijc iji 3c ifc 

A feeble old man was lying on a bed, the 

light of life was fading and only the past re- 
mained with him. He calls for his children — 

“Billy, Dave, Julia — are they in the house? 
Are they out at play? Was Julia kept in 


46 


Southland Stories. 


school ? Tell Mr. Archie not to be hard on her. 
She never could understand figures. Had they 
their Christmas things ? Tell the boys to be 
careful with their guns. They were so heed- 
less.” 

Then the scene changed. He was in the 
Senate speaking, not words of burning elo- 
quence, but very disjointed words, indeed. 
And then suddenly shifting — 

“For better' or worse, for richer or poorer* 
until death do us part.” And a soft hand was 
slipped into his and a pair of tremulous lips — 
the tie was as yet unbroken. 

Dogs bark; horses trample; voices call. See 
the procession ! 

Julia, flanked by Dave and Billy as good 
friends as though they were just coming out 
of the garden, fighting wasps; smoking as fast 
as they could. “No pipe like the old Pow- 
hattan,” says Dave. “No tobacco like that 
grown at the back of the house,” says Billy. 

That is a mistake; but as it is yet dark it is 
easy to make a mistake. Julia was with the 
surgeon and Dave and Billy bringing up the 
rear, in contravention of all military regula- 
tions, which place women and surgeons in 
the rear. 

At the door was the mother. 

“Dave, my dear, dear boy.” 

And he is in her arms again. And all the 


The Randolphs. 


47 


recrimination and hostility and heart burning 
fades away, and like 4 ‘the baseless fabric of a 
vision leaves,” &c. 

“Blood is thicker than water,” and brother 
and sister, mother and father, friend and lover 
and old servants are very human and very flesh 
and blood, indeed. 

And it was “Howdy, Marse Dave — ain you 
feard ter come roun’ hayar like dat? Gin’l 
Stuart, he cotch you sho’; en you sutt’nly is 
harnsome; en got er beard, too.” 

:fc ^ ifc ^ 

Faint and weak comes the breath. Wife and 
daughter, sons and lover stand by. The slaves 
gather in the wide hall and on the steps. It is 
only waiting now. They speak in whispers. 
The negroes out on the porch sing — 

“Roll, Jordan, Roll.” 

Then the theme changes and a strong bass 
voice leads, rolling forth: 

“We praise thee, O, God: we acknowledge 
thee to be the Lord. All the earth doth wor- 
ship thee: the Father everlasting.” 

The old man moves. The surgeon puts a 
stimulant to his lips. He raises his head and 
listens, even lifting a feeble voice in chorus, 
and a beautiful light shines in his face as the 
last swelling — 

“Have mercy upon us; have mercy upon us, 
as our trust is in thee. 


48 


Southland Stories. 


“ ‘Trust is in thee; trust is in thee,’ ” he 
feebly murmurs. 

Now the chorus changes. It is the “Gloria 
in Excelsis” — 

“Glory be to God on high. 

‘ ‘And on earth peace ; good will towards men. ’ ’ 

“We praise thee, we bless thee, we glorify 
thee. We give thanks to thee” — 

But the surgeon drops the hand he has been 
holding and turns away, taking the widow on 
his arm out of the chamber of death. 

And the peaceful witnesses of the death of 
the old statesman went back to their occupa- 
tions of war, “battle, murder and sudden 
death,” and the like. 

There is no chronicle of all these events, ex- 
cept to record that there is a very successful 
surgeon in the city of Baltimore, state of Mary- 
land, named Archie. And he has a wife named 
Julia, and a little girl as like the Julia of old 
as could be, coming out of the garden wasp- 
stung — hair down over her shoulders; and two 
boys, Billy and Dave. 

And Briarwood plantation is carried on by 
Col. Dave Randolph, who is a successful farmer, 
with a wife mightily like little Lucy Locke, and 
Col. Billy is practicing law in New York city, 
and getting good fees, and they are all just the 
most devoted brothers and sisters in the world. 
And Julia’s hair falls down to this very day. 


CHIEF.* 

r I THE hotel porter who came to the railroad 
station wore a very big brass watch chain 
with many seals; he was pompous in his man- 
ner and dress, and he bore a great name; for he 
called himself “Chief Justice John Marshall.” 
He was commonly known as ‘ ‘Chief. ’ ’ He had 
belonged to the Marshall family in Virginia. 
That he had taken the name of the most illus- 
trious member of the family caused no wonder. 
He went regularly to the station, seeking pa- 
trons for the hotel that he served. The train 
was late on this particular day, and I was in- 
terested in noticing that Chief seemed especially 
impatient and was scolding about the delay. 
He was expecting some one in whom he was 
deeply concerned, and I was amused at his 
impatience. 

“Dey calls her de limited,” he said, turning 
tome, “but what she’s limited ferl doan’ know, 
’thout’n hit’s ter git in behin’ time. Sho’ ’s 
yer ’speck her, she’s boun’ ter be late, jes’ ter 
fool yer; yaas, fool yer ev’y blessed time. En 

* Republished from The Atlantic Monthly by special 
permission of Messrs Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


50 


Southland Stories. 


dat boy ’ll git year arfter dark, en I ’bleeged 
ter git back ter dat hotel ter look arfter dem 
trunks. I sutt’nly is dis’p’inted, dat I is; en 
dat chile ’speck’n me ter meet ’im, en he doan’ 
know no mo’ ’bout dis city ner er coon. Dey 
sutt’nly ought ter look out ’bout dese trains; 
hit ’s too discomposin’ fer ter be hendered dis 
er way.” 

“Who are you looking for, Chief?” I asked. 

“Why, de young marster, o’ co’se; who you 
think I could be lookin’ fer, ’sep’n him?” he 
replied, seeming to think I could see the per- 
plexed state of his mind by looking at his face; 
“de young marster Ben, he cornin’ f’m Lynch- 
bug, en he start on de train dis mawnin’, en I 
knows de chile ’s hongry en tie’d, too, travelin’ 
all dat er way by hisse’f. Yaas, suh, he tuck 
de train at Lynchbug dis mawnin’, en he come 
all de way f’m Amhust Cote House ter teck it 
at dat.” 

“Does he live here ?” I inquired. 

“Who? him ? Ain’ I jes’ tell yer he live in 
Amhust, en dat’s way down in Yerginia, where 
I wuz horned en raise’. Yaas, suh, down in 
Amhust, en er good place hit is w’en you gits 
dar. Lemme see: dat boy ’ll be sixteen year 
ole dis summer cornin’, dat he will, en I ain’ 
seed him dis two year. Yaas, suh, hit ’ll be 
nigher two year dan one sence I sot eyes on 
’im. I ’speck he grow so I sca’cely knows ’im ; 


CHIEF. 


51 


but I bet I does, fer he got he daddy eye, en he 
daddy walk, too. Yaas, jes’ lemme see he eye 
en I knows ’im right off. He got er eye jes’ 
like de marster w’at fit ’long in de wah, right 
’long side Gin’l Stuart, w’at wuz killed down 
at de Yaller Tavern, nigh Richmun’. He die 
game, so de say, en dat boy ’s gamer ’n his 
daddy. He ain’ feard de debbil hisse’f.” 

“Is he coming here to school?” I asked, by 
way of keeping up the conversation. 

“He? Lawd, nor, suh ! He got no call ter 
go ter school. He smart ’nuff ’thout’n gwine 
ter school. Leastways de miss’s ain’ gwine 
trus’ ’im dis fur ’way ter no school. She teach 
him lierse’f, she do, en dat boy knows ez much 
ez de miss’s. Nor, suh, he ain’ got no need ter 
go ter no school in dis place. He jes’ cornin’ 
on ter see ole Chief, dat ’s all. He come ’bout 
onct er year, anyway, en de miss’s come wid 
’im sometimes. Dey ain’ fergit Chief, not dey. 
I gits dis fer him,” he added confidentially, 
“gits hit lars’ night, en I gwine gin her to ’im 
soon ’s he gits off ’n de train en I gits nigh ’nuff 
ter han’ her to ’im.” And as he spoke he took 
from his pocket a really handsome silver watch 
with a gold chain. 

“Where did you get that?” I said. 

“Who? me? Ain’ I jes’ tell you I git hit fer 
de boy? Bought hit wi’ my own yearnin’s, 
too; did n’ s’ pose I stole her, did you?” 


5 * 


Southland Stories. 


He was evidently indignant, and I apologized. 

“Yaas, suh ! bought her wi’ my own money, 
fer dat boy.” 

“And his father was your master, was he?” 
Chief’s story was getting interesting. I wished 
to hear more of it. 

“Yaas, suh, dat he wuz, en er good marster he 
wuz, fer sho’ en suttin. You see my mammy 
she ’longed ter nuther estate f’m ourn, en long 
’fo’ de wall de man w’at owned her he broke 
up ’n wuz gwine ter de Wes’. En he say he 
gwine ter sell all he people ter de Georgia trad- 
ers; en de marster say ’t wuz er shame, en he 
gwine ter buy me an’ my mammy anyway, fer 
he know'd her pussonally. So he goes to de 
sale, he does, en he bids her in, hern ’n me, fer 
er thousan’ dollars. En w’en he come ter pay 
de money he foun’ he did n’ have ’nuff, en de 
man w’at sells us he say ’t warn’ no matter 
’bout de cash, dat de marster could gin ’im er 
deed er trus’ on de plantation; en so de marster 
he done dat, en de deed jes’ run on. De miss’s 
she wuz orneasy ’bout it, but de marster say 
’t wuz all right long ez he pay de intrus’, but 
she keep tellin’ ’im he better git dat deed fix’; 
but he wuz er keerless sort o’ man, en jes’ let 
her run. He say he done pay de intrus’, en 
dat wuz ’nuff.” 

“I suppose you left Virginia when the war 
came on,” I remarked. 


CHIEF. 


53 


“Me? Nor, suli! I been ’way f ’m dar er 
long time ’fo’ dat. De marster he had er cousin 
in dis city, en he let him have meier so much 
er year — kind o’ hire me out ter him, you know. 
Yaas, I wuz hayar two year befo’ de wah.” 

“Then the war brought you your freedom,” 
I suggested. 

“Well, suh, fur’s dat,” he replied, “Chief 
ain’ wantin’ no better freedom en I gits right 
at home. I ’s had ter scuffle thu some tough 
places sence de wah, but ’t wuz easy times fer 
er lazy nigger at home. De warn’ no boss hur- 
ryin’ you up all day; nor, suh, dat de warn’. 
De han’s on de plantation teck de time, yaas, 
plenty time, time fer eatin’ en steepin’, en hol- 
idays ’nuff fer anybody. De marster wuz easy 
man wi’ easy ways, en he did n’ hurry nobody, 
en de did n’ hurry dese’ ves ’sep’n in de harves’, 
en de ’bleeged ter hurry den ter git de crap in. 

“Cap’n Jack dey calls ’im, he keeps dis hotel, 
en I wuz de porter, jes’ like I is now, ’fo’ de 
wah. En w’en de wah corned on he slips away 
Souf, en he plans ter teck me wi’ ’im. But de 
blockade runners dey would n’ teck me, so I 
had ter stay. But ’twuz mightily ’ginst de 
grain fer me ter stay, en de marster en dat boy 
er hiz’n en de miss’s all yander in Amhust. 
But de warn’ no he’p fer it, so de tells me. En 
w’en Cap’n Jack he goes away he leaves de bis- 
ness in he partner’s han’s, en he say he thought 


54 


Southland Stories. 


de right thing ter do wuz ter pay me de same 
ez w’at he ’d pay any oder porter, seein’ I wuz 
wuckin’ studdy en de warn’ no way ter sen’ de 
wages ter de marster. So he pays me de fus’ 
monf forty dollars in gol’, en he say, ‘Chief, you 
’ll be rich. ’ But I looks at de money en I say ter 
myse’f, ‘Chief, you know dat money ’longs ter 
de marster, doan’ you now ?’ En hit seem ter 
me de money mos’ speak back, ‘Dat I does — I 
ain’ yourn, but de marster’ s, sho’!’ Co’se I 
knows ef de marster wuz right here en see me 
teck de money he’d say he did n’ keer, fer I 
yearns hit myse’f, en he got ’nuff. But ev’y 
time I looks at dat money, en dat money looks 
at me, it say, en I say, ‘We bofe ’longs ter de 
marster, me en de money, en de money en me — 
sho’ ’s def, hit do.’ So I puts her away in er 
box ; hut I feard ter let her stay dar, fer I gwine 
in en out, en who knows hut some o’ dem ornery 
free nigger waiters at dat hotel steals hit ? So 
I axes de cluck at de hotel, en he tecks me down 
ter de bank en interjuses me ter de head man, 
en de tecks de money en gins me a little hook, 
en says w’en I got any mo’ I mus’ come right 
down. Yaas, suh, de treats me jes’ like I wuz 
er gent’mun. So de nex’ monf I had forty 
dollars mo’, en I puts dat erway too. I had n’ 
no call fer money myse’f, fer I gits my boa’d 
at de hotel, en I had plenty clo’es. 

“But all dat time I ’s stud’ in’ ’bout de mars- 


CHIEF. 


55 


ter *n dat boy ’n de miss’s. En I say ter my- 
se’f, I does, de marster ’s yander in Amhust, er 
mebbe he gone inter de alimy, en dat boy ’n de 
miss’s all by dese’ves, en I knows hit ’s hard 
times down datter way, fur I hayarn de hotel 
cluck say so. En den de blockade runner 
corned thu de lines wi' er letter ter de boss, en 
de tells me ’bout hit. So I says ter de blockade 
runner — he v/uz stayin’ at de hotel, pertendin* 
he wuz f’m some furrin country er other— I 
says ter him, I wants him ter teck de money 
thu de lines so de marster ’ll git it. Well, suh, 
he mos’ fall down, he larf so, en he say I ’s de 
bigges’ fool nigger dis side o’ fool-town; dat de 
money ’s mine ter spen’ er keep, jes’ ’s I choose; 
en ez fer teckin’ dat ter Amhust, he got ter go 
by Richmun’, en like ez not he git sunk in de 
bottom o’ de Potomac ’fore he gits ’cross; dat 
hit wuz dange’ser ’n er battle, crossin’ de river 
wi’ all dem gunboats in de way. Den I speaks 
ter ’nudder man, en he say, oh yaas, he teck 
her. But he mos’ too ready, en I ax de hotel 
cluck, en he say doan’ trus’ ’im; he wuz er 
mean Jew w’at wuz carry’ n’ counterban’ goods, 
en ef he tuck de money I mout never see her 
no mo’. So I gin hit up. But hit hu’t me ter 
think dat de marster wuz mos’ likely ’way f’m 
home, fer I done hayar he gone ter fight de 
Yankees wi’ Gin’l Stuart, en wuz one o’ his 
leadin’ men too, fust in de fight en larst ter 


Southland Storing 


56 

leave oil. He ’way f ’m de miss’s en dat boy* 
en dey by deserves on dat plantation. But de 
warn’ no way ter he’p it. So I goes ’long, I 
does, en I saves ev’y cent o’ de wages, en by 
en by de boss raise her ter sixty dollar en er 
good suit er clo’es, kaze de house wuz full er 
people all de time, en de did n’ seem ter keer 
w’at de pays. De jes’ ez leave han’ Chief er 
dollar fer totin’ er valise ter de station ez ten 
cents in de ole times. En one day er man — 1 
thinks he wuz er gineral, er some sich — he gin 
me er five dollar gol’ piece fer lie’pin’ him ’cross 
de street. He wuz er little bit lame, en he say 
he fightin’ ter set us all free. I doan’ keer fer 
dat, so I gits de money. 

“So dis sort o’ doin’ s gwine on fer nigh fo’ 
year, en I wuz layin’ up er right good pile o’ 
money. Good deal o’ hit wuz in gol’. En one 
day I wuz gittin’ de cluck ter add her up fer 
me in de little book de bank gin me, en he say, 
‘Chief, you gittin’ rich; you got mo’ ’n nine 
hun’ed dollars in gol’.’ ‘Well,’ I say, ‘gol’ ’s 
money, en money ’s gol’.’ But he say gol’ ’s 
wuff two twenty-five. ‘Well, ’ I say, ‘w’at good 
dat do me?’ “Good!’ he say; ‘why, you kin 
teck dat gol’ en sell her fer mo’ ’n two thousand 
dollars in greenbacks. En dey ’s ez good ez’ 
gol’ fer you er me eider. ’ En den he say, ‘Chief, 
why doan’ you spen’ you’ money?’ But I up 
’n tell him dat de money warn’ mine; dat I 


CHIEF. 


57 


savin’ tier fer de marster. Hit ’long ter him. 
Den he look at me er little while, en he say, 
‘Chief, you too hones’ fer dis worl’: de quicker 
you gits out’n it de better !’ En den he say he 
did n’ want to hu’t my feelin’s, hut he thinks 
he better tell me dat he hearn day before yis* 
turday dat de marster he done got killed some 
time befo’, down at de Yaller Tavern, nigh 
Richmun’, fightin’ wi’ Gin’l Stuart. He doan’ 
like much ter tell me befo’, but ’t wuz sutt’nly 
so. Den I ax ’im ’bout de miss’s ’n dat boy, en 
he say he doan’ know much erbout ’em, but 
dat he hearn de all mighty po’, sence de wah 
done ’flicted ’em so. De warn’ nobody ter 
wuck de craps, en he ’specks de all starve mos’ 
’fo’ de een o’ things come. De niggers all lef ’ 
soon ’s dey could, en he ’specks de warn’ er 
han’ lef’ ’bout de place. Ez fer all de money 
I done save, he say ef de marster wuz livin’ he 
got no claim on de money; dat I wuz free ez er 
no’thwes’ win’ now, en fer de matter o’ dat, 
had been sence de proclamation; dat de warn’ 
nobody ownin’ me no more ’n de king er Cuba. 
But I tells ’im ez fer dat, I doan’ know so much 
’bout dat, but I knows w’en de marster done 
bought my mammy ’n me he tuck he own 
money ter do it, en w’en I tecks dat money fer 
mine, I wants hit straight f ’m home fust. W’en 
de miss’s say so, hit mought be all right, but I 
mus’ see her fust. 


58 


Southland Stories, 


“En dat night I had er dream en I see de 
marster. He wuz ridin’ he hoss, ’n gwine out 
de front gate, ter jine de anmy, En he call me 
en say jes’ ’s plain ez kin be: ‘Chief, I doan’ 
know w’en dis wah ’s gwine ter be over, ner 
What ’s ter be de een o’ all dis; but ef I dies, I 
dies er fightin’, en I looks ter you ter see dat 
de miss’s en dat boy ’s tooken keer o’.’ I see 
dat, en hayar dat— liayar ’im en see ’im, jes’ ’s 
plain ez daylight. En den I knows jes’ w’at 
ter do. 

“So I goes to de cluck en I say I gwine home 
*=— I ’ bleeged ter go. But he say de warn’ no 
way ter git home; dat de railroads warn’ run- 
nin’, en not even de bridges put up. So de 
warn’ nuttin’ ter do ’sep’n ter wait. 

“Den t’ wards de fall he tells me dey done 
fix de railroad en de trains runnin’ thu some 
sort o’ way, en I seed some people w’at corned 
thu f’m Lynchbug, at de hotel. Dey did n’ 
know nuttin’ ’bout de folks at home, do’. Den 
I gits ready ter start. I hear ’t wuz awful hard 
times down dat way, en how de people w’ars 
de commones’ sort o’ clo’es, en how de warn’ 
’nuff money in Amhust ter buy er poun’ er cof- 
fee; en ez fer sugar, dey done los’ de tas’ o’ 
dat. So I gits er nice little bun’le o’ sugar ’n 
coffee, en some tea, fer I knows de miss’s love 
dat, en I gits de cluck at de hotel (he sutt’nly 
wuz good ter me en I ain’ gwine fergit ’im 


CHIEF* 59 

ilUther) fer ter fix all de papers at de bank, so 
dat money all straight* 

“Den I thinks ’bout dat boy en I stud’ in’ 
’bout some clo’es fer ’im. I ’specks he grow 
right smart, so I gits er suit, de n ices’ one in de 
sto’, en er nice paar er shoes, de fines’ dey had 
in de sto’, en er bag er candy, en I wuz ’bout 
ready. I wuz mighty ’tic’l’r ’bout dat money, 
kase I knows de miss’s wuz ’tic’l’r, en she uster 
say dat somebody had ter be ’tic’l’r, else dey all 
be in de po’ house, de marster wuz so keerless 
en easy-goin’. So I gits de papers fix so ef 
anythin’ happ’n ter me ’t would be all right 
fer de miss’s. I know’d de miss’s, do’, mighty 
well, en I mistrus’ ef she teck dat money. She 
mighty quaar sometimes ’bout w’at ’s hern, but 
I gits er stifficut f ’m de bank sayin’ de money 
wuz all right, all ’sep’n some change I tucken 
out ter trabbel wi\ 

“En now I wuz ready ter start. I kep’ 
thinkin’ ’bout dat dream, en itseemjes’ like de 
marster wuz jes’ overhead o’ me all de time, 
sayin’, ‘Chief, teck cayar o’ dat boy an’ de 
miss’s.’ 

“I wuz stud’in’ ’bout home all de time, mos’, 
fer I ain’ fergit ’em, ef ’t wuz er long time. I 
know’d dat de marster wuz killed in de wah, en 
I know’d all de han’s lef’ de place. I seed one 
er two o’ em endurin’ o’ de wah, cornin’ thu 
dis very depot, en de say de gwine ter Boston. 


60 Southland Stories. 

En I ax ’em ’bout de place en de people, en de 
tells me suttin’. But I ax ’em ain’ de shame 
ter run off en leave de miss’s now dat de mars- 
ter wuz gone; en de looks right sheepish ’bout 
hit. But de say all de niggers in de county 
done gone. I doan’ b’l’eve dat, fer I know I 
ain’ runnin’ erway, but I stud’ in’ how ter git 
back. En I know one thing fer suttin’ : ef dem 
niggers git ter Boston, en furder ’n dat, de won’ 
fin’ no home ez good ez Amlinst, en no frien’ 
ez good ez de miss’s. Nor, sub, dat de won’. 
En de axes me w’at I doin’ all dis time; w’en I 
tells ’em how much I meek, en how I done save 
it fer de miss’s en dat boy, de jes’ larfs at me 
en say I ’s er bigger fool ’n w’en I lef’ home — 
dat I wuz free en dat de money wuz mine — all 
de niggers wuz free. Den I up ’n tells ’em dat 
de ain’ got sense ter meek money fer dese’ves, 
let ’lone de miss’s. Yaas, suh, I know dem 
niggers ain’ gwine fin’ no quarters en hick’y 
logs on de fire en ’taters roastin’ in de ashes, 
let ’lone ’possums en coons ready fer ketcliin’ 
’n cookin’. En I tells ’em de ain’ no dodgin’ 
wuck up datter way, ner meckin’ b’l’eve you 
got er chill, en havin’ de miss’s sen’ you er 
dram ter keep hit off. Nor, suh, home ’s good 
’nuff fer dis nigger, ’n I wuz gittin’ mo’ ’n mo’ 
longiner fer it. 

“I wuz say in’ T t wuz t’ wards fall, but I 
b’l’eves hit wuz nigher Chris’mus, en I wuz 


CHIEF. 


6l 


thi likin' ’bout hawg-killin’, en I gits er mighty 
longin’ fer some o’ dat sossige dat de miss’s 
meek, she en Jane de cook. Hit jes’ melt in 
you’ mouf. En dar wuz de hasslets en tripe, 
en — why, my Lawd, suh, dat wuz livin’! En 
hominy ! De good ole hominy de meek in de 
mortar hollered out’n er log, en Big Sam ter 
beat her wi’ er pestle ! Meek my mouf water 
dis minnit ! 

“I tecks de kayars at dis ve’y depot, en I 
•starts fer Amhust. I gits so busy thinkin’ dat 
I draps off ter sleep, en ef de corndoctor hed 
n’ wake’ me up I ’specks I sleep all de way ter 
No’th C’ liner. Ez it wuz de kayars carry me 
pas’ de Amhust station en clean ter Lynchbug. 
So I gits off at Lynchbug, en it wuz way in de 
night. De warn’ nuttin 5 ter do ’sep’n ter wait 
tell daylight, so I sot by de fire in de station en 
doze twell mawnin’. En I looks out’n de win- 
der, en de wuz right smart fall er snow, en I 
feels mighty like stickin’ by dat fire. But dat 
warn’ right, so I picks up my bun’le ’n starts 
mos’ ’fo’ day. En all de way I ’s thinkin’ ’bout 
home en I gits longiner en longiner ter see ’em. 

“ ’T warn’ so ve’y fur ter de Cote House, en 
de ole place wuz jes’ beyan’, ’bout er mile er 
so. So I gits dar in time fer breakfus’, en tries 
ter hunt up somebody I knows; but de warn’ 
nobody ’bout dat know’d me. I done been 
gone so long, dey done fergitted me clean out 


6s 


Southland Stories. 


en out. Well, I say, de miss’s en dat 6oy am’ 
fergit me, I sho’ o’ dat — de know me de fus 7 
sight. I sot by de fire in de Cote House warm- 
in’ myse’f, en ef I did ’n git ter nappin’ ergin l 
Yaas, suh, fer er fac’; en w’en I wakes up de 
bell wuz ringin’, en de judge wuz comin’ in, en 
de sheriff wuz hollerin 7 , ‘Oh yes, oh yes;’ en 
when I hears dat I says I ’s home now fer sho’, 
Fer de marster uster be de sheriff in de ole 
times, en many ’s de time I heard ’im holler 
‘Oh yes,’ jes’ dat way. But w’en I looks at dat 
man w’at wuz hollerin’ I say ter myse’f, ‘Dat 
man ain’ no Marshall; no, tier none er de stock 
’bout hayar.’ I liss’n, en he talk thu he nose 
like dem Yankee fellers in de wah. You caym’t 
fool me ’bout you’ speechifyin’ ; I knows de Ole 
Yerginia speech e’vy time. So I sot dar, en de 
did n’ nobody say nuttin’ ter me, ner I say nut- 
ti’ ter none er dem. 

“Putty soon de joums de cote, en de say de 
gwine ter have a sale. So de man what hollers 
‘Oh yes,’ he gits on de Cote House steps en 
reads some papers ’bout ’t wuz ’cordin’ de deed 
o’ trus’, en say de gwine sell de ole Marshall 
place. When I hayars dat I wakes up fer good, 
fer when he calls de Marshall name you know 
I houri* ter liss’n. So I gits up dost, en he say 
how de place wuz one er de fines’ in de county, 
er Ole Y erginia homestead, ’ bout fo’ hun’ ed acres 
mo’ o’ less, wi’ timber en house en outbuildin’s. 


CHIEF. 


6 3 


4 ‘En I say ter myse’f, ‘Name er Gord ! de 
gwine ter sell my ole miss’s home !’ I tell you, 
suh, I wuz so tecken erback I mos’ fergit my 
own brudder. So I sez to myse’f, ‘I gwine ter 
speak ter de jedge, so I is’ — I see ’im stan’in’ 
dost by. So I aidge over his way en ax if ’t 
wuz er fad, de sellin’ de ole Marshall place. 
En he say ’t wuz so, dat wuz de place. Well, 
suh, it fayar meek me grunt. En I ax ’im 
warn’ de no way ter stop hit? ‘Nor,’ he say, 
‘not ’less’n you buys it,’ en he larf when he 
say dat. ‘Dat ’s er fad, suh,’ sez I, ‘en I ’s 
mightily ’bleeged ter you. I had n’ thought o’ 
that.’ En all of a suddent hit come over me 
all ’bout de marster hirin’ me out in Baltimo’, 
at de hotel, en how good he wuz ter me, he en 
de miss’s, en how de good Lawd hed prospered 
me en he’p me pick up all dat money, en how 
I had dat honin’ ter come home, en I gits dar 
jes’ in de nick er time wi’ de money I ’specks 
rightly ’longs ter de miss’s — mos’ o’ hit, any- 
way; en please Gord, I gwine ter buy de place 
dis day ef de money hoi’ out ! 

“I ’s er ’lig’us man, suh, en sometimes in de 
meetin’ I gits kinder happy, en feels like shout- 
in’. But de Lawd knows I feels mo’ like shout- 
in’ jes’ den dan in all de meetin’s put togeder; 
I b’l’eves I did holler jes’ er little. But de 
auctioneer wuz cryin’ de sale, en sayin’ dat de 
deed o’ trus’ wuz er thousan’ dollar, en how de 


6 4 


Southland Stories. 


wuz fo’ year intrus’ on it, but dat de cote had 
’cided dat de could n’ c’lect de intrus’ w’at had 
growed endurin’ o’ de wah, en de place wuz fer 
sale, en, gentermuns, how much you give ? 
Did n’ nobody seem like de want ter bid, en 
one man say de warn’ er thousan’ dollars in de 
county, en he warn’ sho’ de wuz in de state. En 
one feller he start her at a hun’ed dollars, en de 
auctioneer larf ’n say it teck dat much fer buy 
er graveyard; en de oder man say de wuz plenty 
er men like him git graveyards down hayar fer 
nuttin’ not so ve’y long ergo, ’sep’n fer de bul- 
lit hit took fer fetch ’em. So dat start a larf, 
en de auctioneer say, ‘Gentermuns, dis place is 
boun’ ter be sol’, even ef she doan’ sell fer mo’ 
’n nuff ter pay de deed er trus’. Dis place wuz 
wuth fo’ thousan’ dollars ef hit wuz wuth er 
cent.’ 

“Den I steps up dost en I ax ’im, ‘How much 
you say is owin’ on de place ?’ 

“ ‘One thousan’ dollars,’ he say. 

“Den hit all come over me like er streak er 
liglitnin’ ’bout dat deed er trus’ de marster put 
on de place ter buy me ’n my mammy ter keep 
us f ’m bein’ sol’ ter Georgia; en now I knows 
how de good Lawd he done sont me down hayar 
dis day, jes’ in de nick er time. ’T wuz Provi- 
dence, sho’; so I knows now jes’ what ter’ do. 
I mecks up my min’, en I steps up ter de front 
en I say, ‘J buy de place myse’f.’ 


CHIEF. 


65 


“Well, suh, you ought ter hayar de people 
larf, en somebody say de bottom rail gittin’ on 
top, sho’, w’en de Marshall place ’longs ter er 
nigger. De hung one, so he say, lars’ week, 
fer sheep-stealin’, en he ax me whar I f’m. 
En I tells ’im, en he ax my name; en w’en I 
tells ’im dat, he bus’ out, ‘Why, I know de 
man ! I seed him in Baltimo’ many er time 
w’en I wuz blockade runninV 

“En sho’ ’nuff, ’t wuz de ve’y blockade run- 
ner I seed at de hotel dar — not de Jew one, but 
de one w’at brung de letter f’m Amhust. So 
I tecks him one side, fer I did n’ want ev’ybody 
meddlin’ in my business, en I shows him de 
stifficut f’m de bank. En he say he know de 
bank well; en de judge step up, en he say he 
knows her too, dat ’t wuz good ez gol’. So dey 
bofe ’grees ter go on de bon’ er condemnation, 
en de auctioneer say, ‘All right, ole man, de 
place is yourn.’ 

“I steps ercross inter de cluck’s office wi’ ’im, 
en gits de deed er release, as de calls hit; any- 
way de fix it all right so ’t wuz my place. 

“But ’t warn’ my place, suh ! Nor, suh ! 
’t wuz de miss’s, en so I say he mus’ fix her so 
she ’long ter de miss’s. So he fix some mo’ 
papers, en he git me ter meek my cross in de 
right place, en he gits ’nudder gent’mun ter 
witness ter it, en he say, ‘You done sign hit 
over ter de Widow Marshall.’ 


66 


Southland Stories. 


“ ‘Dat ’s right,’ I say; ‘dat ’s jes’ what I 
want. ’ 

“Den he larf er little at me, en I hearn one 
o’ de gent’muns say my heart wuz bigger ’n 
my haid. But I ain’ keerin’ now, en I gits 
ready ter start fer home ergin. 

“ ’T warn’ so fur, ’bout er mile er so ’cross 
de fiel’, en de day wuz Chris’ mus Eve. Lawd, 
how many Chris’ musses I had on dat ole place ! 
en good ones too. ’T warn’ none o’ your one 
day Chris’mus, en gwine ter ehutch harf de 
time at dat. Nor, suh ! ’t wuz er good solid 
week, en mo’ ’n dat. Ef Chris’mus wuz er 
Friday, de han’s stop wuck Thtt’sday, en de 
wuck no mo’ ’n twell arfter de New Year. No, 
not twell de Monday arfter de New Year. En 
den de done jes’ ez de please. De warn’ no 
overseer on dat place. De marster say w’en 
his han’s ’bleeged ter have er overseer, he doan’ 
want ’em no mo’. He de boss hisse’f, en he 
boss good part o’ de time wi’ he eyes shet. Ef 
’t warn’ fer de miss’s, I doan’ know what ’d 
come ter de place. She ’ bleeged ter boss er 
leetle. 

“So all de ole times gone, en de marster killed 
at de Yaller Tavern, fightin’ wi’ Gin’l Stuart, 
en de miss’s en dat boy wi’ Chris’mus ’mos’ 
hayar, en dey thinkin’ de place sol’ over de 
haids. I pulls out right lively when I thinks 
o’ dat, en jes’ fo’ sundown I sighted de ole 


CHIEF. 


67 


place. I ’specks hit wuz de sunshine on de 
snow, kinder blindin’ my eyes, er somehow de 
water kep’ cornin’ in my eyes anyway. So I 
walks up ter de kitchen do’, en ef dar warn’ 
dat ole setter dawg o’ de marster’s layin’ on de 
steps like he been dar all he days ! I notice he 
did n’ bark nor look at me, en w’en I gits dost 
ter ’im I see he stone blin’, en I b’l’eves he deef 
too. Dawgs gits ole farster ’n people. But I 
feels kinder shy o’ ’im fer all dat, so I goes up 
ter de do’ mighty cautious en try de latch, en 
’t wuz locked. ’T wuz de fust time Chief ever 
foun’ dat do’ locked agin him ! So I goes ’roun’ 
ter de po’ch, at de front do’, en 1 peeps in de 
winder, en I sees de miss’s en dat boy ! She 
wuz settin’ by de fire in er big cheer — de same 
one she sot in ’fo’ I went erway — ’t wuz her 
gran’ mother’s, so de say, en brung f ’m ’cross 
de water — en dat boy wuz settin’ ’longside o’ 
her, on de flo’, wi’ he haid in her lap. Lawd, 
suh ! I ain’ seed nuttin’ like dat fer I doan’ 
know how long. Dar de set, jes’ like ’fo’ de 
wall, en she wuz pushin’ he hayar back f ’m he 
forred. En dat boy he had he arm roun’ her; 
en doan’ you know, suh, he wuz mos’ er man. 

“Well, suh, I bus’ out larfin, en I say ter my- 
se’f, ‘Name er de Lawd, how dat boy gwine ter 
git hisse’f inter dem clo’es en dem shoes? He 
big ’nuff fer two suits er clo’es.’ En I larf so 
dey bofe jump up en looks ’roun’, en den I see 


63 


Southland Stories. 


he daddy over agin, eyes en motif en hayar en 
all. En when he step, he step proud like he 
daddy. So he come ter de do’ en opens hit, en 
he ax me w’at I wan’, jes’ ’s perlite ez de mars- 
ter hese’f, fer he wuz er gentermun ter ev’y- 
body. En jes’ den er sudden notion tuk me, 
en I say I wuz beggar man f ’m Lynchbug. He 
say he sorry fer me, but dat I come beggin’ ter 
er beggar house; dat de wuz sea’ cel y er man er 
woman in de state po’er ’n dem. 

“En while he wuz talkin’, de miss’s git up 
f’m de cheer, en ez she tu’n roun’, I see her 
hayar all tu’n white dat wuz black ez er crow 
w’en I went erway, en de wrinkles done come 
in her face. But she wuz putty yet, spite o’ 
dat. En she come ter de do’, en she say, ‘Ole 
man, I ’s sorry fer yo, en wish I could he’p yo.’ 
En w’en I gin ter look at her, her clo’es wuz 
meaner dan de meanes’ han’ on de place in de 
ole times; en I look at her shoes, en de wuz all 
wored out en ragged, en de warn’ bofe erlike. 
Dat ’s er fac’! But de hel’ de liaids up all de 
same, do’ hit wuz plain de ’flictions drag ’em 
down. 

“I see de miss’s lookin’ at dat boy, en den I 
see de tears in her eyes. I could n’ stan’ dat, 
en I draps de bun’les on de po’cli, en I bus’ 
right out er cryin’, en I say: — 

“ ‘Miss’s, doan’ you know me? doan’ you 
know Chief?’ 


CHIEF. 69 

“Well, suh, you oughter seed her face light 
up like de sun risin’ on hit. 

“ ‘Why, so ’t is !’ she say, “tis Chief come 
hack. You been gone so long we thought you ’d 
forgetted us, or wuz daid. You mus’ come in, 
Chief, and I ’ll try to git you somethin’ to eat.’ 

“En you know, suh, she retched out bofe o’ 
her han’s ter me, en shuck han’s wi’ me same 
’s I wuz er white gentermun ! She did fer er 
fac’. En dat boy he keep he eye on me, like 
he feard hit warn’ all right, fer you know, suh, 
he ’d growed out’n all ’membunce er me. So I 
goes in, I did, en sot down, at home en thank- 
ful fer it. 

“En den de miss’s ax me whar I cum f’m 
lars’, en I tells her f’m de Cote House. E11 
she start ter ax me ’bout de sale, but she kin’ 
o’ choke en stop. En den I fumbles wi’ my 
bun’les, en I say ‘I bring you all some Chris’ - 
mus, sence I ain’ been home fer so long.’ En 
I showed ’em de coffee en sugar en de oder lit- 
tle things, en I say I hope she ’ll ’cept ’em f’m 
Chief, fer I ’members ’em all de time I wuz 
erway. 

“She smile her ole way, like she smile befo’ 
de wah, en she say she sutt’nly is thankful, en 
hit wuz real kind ter ’member ’em, ’bove all 
times at Chris’ mus. En den I pull out de suit 
er clo’es en de shoes, en I say I feard I meek er 
mistake ’bout dat boy; I fergits he growin’ so. 


70 


Southland Stories. 


’T wuz er nice suit, do’, en bofe of ’em larf right 
hearty; fer de pants wuz mos’ up ter de boy’s 
knees, en ez fer de coat, hit warn’ much mo’ ’n 
big ’nufF fer one side o’ ’im. But de miss’s say 
she do b’l’eve she kin w’ar de shoes herse’f. En 
doan’ you know, suh, de fits her fus’ rate. De 
wuz nice shoes, wi’ low quarters en buckles. 

“So de all sets down, en I stan’s up by de 
fireplace, en I see by de miss’s face she think- 
in’ ’bout de marster. She look at dat boy, en 
den she look at me, en she say, ‘Chief, I s’ pose 
you know de cunnel’s daid ?’ 

“I say, ‘Yaas, ’m; I hayars dat ’fo’ de wall 
close.’ 

“ ‘He wuz er brave man,’ she say, ‘en de 
bring ’im home en bury ’im in de fambly bury- 
in’-groun’ out dar.’ 

“Den arter er while dey tole me ’bout de 
sellin’ er de ole place. Well, suh, I could n’ 
stan’ no mo’, en I say ter de miss’s, ‘I done 
buy de place myse’f.’ 

“‘What!’ she say. ‘I doan’ un’erstan’ !’ 
En she look kin’ o’ white in de face. 

“ ‘Yaas, ’m,’ I say, ‘I done buy de place. 
Hit my place; dat is, hit you all’s place. I tell 
you I done buy de place dis day at de Cote 
House. Hayar de deed.’ En I pulls de paper 
out’n my pocket, en shoves hit inter her han’, 
en say, ‘De marster, he done hire me out up 
yander in Baltimo’, en I saves de money when 


CHIEF. 


71 


de wah comes on same ’s ’t wuz his’n. Yaas, 
’m, dat I did. En I fotches de money wi’ me, 
en I bid in de place, en gits de cluck ter ’lease 
de deed er trus’, en meek de whole place over 
ter you all, en hayar ’ is. Hit ’s all yourn, 
you ’n dat boy. Yaas, ’m.’ 

“Well, sub, I thought she ’d er drapt, she 
looked so white. But in er minnit she corned 
ter herse’f, en de color corned back in her face, 
mo’ ’n I seed all de time I ’d been dar. En she 
tu’n ter dat boy, en she say, ‘Han’ me dat 
Bible, son,’ en she open hit en read dat saarm 
commencin’, ‘Bless de Lawd, O my soul,’ en it 
soun’ like de voice er de angels cornin’.” 

With grinding, screeching brakes and clang 
of bells the Southern train wound into the sta- 
tion. As Chief stepped forward, I saw alight 
from the car a tall, bright-faced youth, with a 
keen eye and an elastic step, and running up 
to Chief he put his arm through his, and the 
two disappeared in the crowd. 


WILL XEBMUXBS’S CHRISTMAS. 



t F course, every man in the regiment knew 


Nedmunds — Will, we called him. He 
was a quiet fellow, probably about thirty years 
old, who never' talked about himself, nor 
bragged about his doings, although I do think, 
if any man had a right to make a parade of 
himself, it might be Will, for certainly there 
was not a braver fellow or one more ready for 
any desperate adventure than he. I have seen 
many of these boasting fellows, who would sit 
around a camp-fire and tell all kinds of yarns 
about what they had done — how much of it 
was true the Lord only knows; but you never 
heard Will at anything like that. If you got 
the telling of an adventure out of him, it was 
like getting the cork out of a bottle after it has 
been shoved inside. But that is neither here 
nor there, for a tale is like a piece of varnished 
wood, its looks, or I should say its sound, de- 
pends much on its polish, and Will was not the 
man to do that sort of thing, he was not “built 
that way.” 

But, as I said before, he was always ready — 
ready for duty, ready for adventure, and it 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 


73 


seems to me as I look back at the times we had 
together that he would really and truly rather 
fight than eat. I never saw such a fellow. Of 
course, there were times when a man, if he felt 
a little off, could say to the colonel that he was 
not exactly up to the mark, and if it was the 
same to him would he be allowed to stay in the 
line, and not take the skirmish work. But you 
never saw that in Will. I have known him to 
ask a man to let him take his place, when there 
was work to do which most likely would be the 
last of the workers, or fighters. Yet, Will was 
not a daredevil at all, and I am sure he was not 
trying to get killed, but he was just a born 
fighter, and was happiest when in it. 

No; he wanted to live, there is no doubt 
about that; for, when we got to talking about 
home and wife and children — about the things 
that a man, when he is quiet, thinks most about 
and dreams most about — then Will could talk 
until it sounded like poetry he was reciting, and 
his voice would grow low and tremble as he 
spoke. 

We were so often together on picket and on 
scout duty that we seemed to know each other 
through and through; although he was not a 
man to talk much about his wife and child, or 
about the old mother who, he said with tears 
in his eyes, buckled his sabre belt about his 
waist and told him that although she loved him 


74 


Southland Stories. 


so she could die as joyfully for him as ever her 
Savior died for the world’s sins, yet she had 
rather see him brought home dead than in dis- 
grace. I went home with him once, soon after 
we enlisted— we were after some forage for our 
horses in the Valley — and I remember well her 
low, soft voice and gentle smile, as she spoke. 
She laid her hand on my head, as I stood before 
her and told me Will was her only boy, the 
hope of the family, she said, and that she had 
not the slightest fear that he would not act as 
honorably away from her as with her, for he 
was his father’s own son, but would not I take 
a sort of brotherly interest in him, and in case 
he was sick or anything, take care of him as 
well as I could ? It was this that made me feel 
like a brother to Will, and he to me, and the 
truth is no one who knew him as I did but 
would have said about him that, if they did 
not have a brother and could, so to speak, elect 
one, Will would be the first choice. 

This was up in the Valley, not far from Har- 
risonburg, and his wife lived down in the Luray 
part of the Valley. He looked down that way 
as he turned his horse’s head towards his own 
home — looked long and sadly. Then he turned 
to me and said: 

“Tom, old fellow, you don’t know until you 
have a wife and child, how one feels about such 
things. Down there lives gll (excepting, of 


WiLt Nedmunds’s Christmas. 75 

course, clear mother) that makes life for me. I 
enjoy living, I take the dearest delight in draw- 
ing in this fine mountain air and feeling the 
warm blood run through my veins*, there is not 
a nerve in me that does not quiver with pleasure 
as I sit on this horse and feel as if I were a part 
of him, so to speak. But down there in that 
valley lives my little woman and the little girl 
and the baby boy, and you can not tell how I 
long to turn my horse that way and see them. 
But orders are orders, and duty is duty, and you 
and I must be beyond the ridge and on the way 
to Culpeper before night.” 

Then he began to talk, as I said as if he were 
reciting some old poetry, and it was a wonder 
to see his eye, and hear his fine voice tremble 
as he told me long stories of her, and how he 
had first met her in the old log school house in 
the mountains, when she was only a bit of a 
miss, and how he had earned her over the ford 
in his arms, when the water was up to his waist, 
so she could get home after the freshet, and how 
people teased him and tormented him about his 
clumsy ways of waiting on her, and how he had 
hoped, and despaired, and hoped again, all the 
time ready to kiss the very tracks she made in 
the path, and how, as she grew up, and put up 
her long hair and put on long dresses, and her 
deep blue eyes grew to look like violets and her 
voice as soft and low as an April wind. She 


76 


Southland Stories. 


became shyer and more reserved, until one day, 
just as the apple-blossoms were their sweetest 
and the mocking bird had come back and he 
and his mate were looking for a nesting place, 
he told how he made love to her, and she put 
her hand in his — Oh ! ’twas as pretty as a picture 
the way he told it, though it may sound awk- 
ward as I tell it now. 

So we turned our horses’ heads toward the 
Piedmont, and for the next six months Jeb 
Stuart and Stonewall had us on the trot, until 
we hardly had time to breathe; only once in a 
while, as Will and I had turns together on 
picket we talked — he always of the little house 
and the sweet mother and little blue-eyed girl 
that the Lord had sent them — she now being 
six years old and “her mother all over to the 
finger-nails,” so he said, and that boy ! And I 
do not doubt it, for they say the mother influ- 
ences us most, though, if that is so, I do not 
see why Pm not better. 

So the days flew by, and we seemed to be liv- 
ing as fast as the wind, with march, fight, camp, 
retreat, sometimes in Virginia, sometimes over 
the Potomac in Maryland, but go, go, until it 
seemed to me that we had covered every foot 
of Virginia ground and some North, where 
they say the people do nothing but make some- 
thing for other folks; and, we thought, made 
lots of mischief by meddling in our matters. 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 77 

But that is neither here no there, and this story 
I am telling does not concern more than two or 
three people, though why it takes so long to 
tell it I can hardly say. 

Will was where he always was, at the front, 
when there was a chance to get there, and the 
army was at Brandy Station. This was in the 
summer or fall, and the “Yanks” were on the 
Fauquier side of the river, and holding the line 
close to the bank, when some one said the gen- 
eral wanted the bridge burned. Just how to 
do it was a question, for it was right under the 
fire of the guns of the enemy, and you would 
have said a man was crazy to try going down 
to the bridge and setting it on fire. But the 
general had said he wanted it done, but kind- 
hearted man that he was, he would rather, so 
far as danger was concerned, have gone down 
himself than to have sent any of the boys into 
that death-trap. 

I was one of the general’s orderlies, and he 
called me and asked me to see if any of the 
men would volunteer. I was not half through 
asking when Will Nedmunds stepped to the 
front and said: 

“Tom, you needn’t look any further, I’ll go.” 

He said it just as quietly as if he was wrap- 
ping his blanket around him for a nap, and as 
don’t-care as if life was not worth a snap. Half 
a dozen men stepped out of the ranks in a 


Southland Stories'. 


7 * 

twinkling; but the general said one could do 
the work as well as twenty, and it was nob 
worth while to run risks; though I heard him 
say to one of his aides that it was more than a 
risk, it was almost certain death. But if Will 
was scared he did not show it, except perhaps 
to turn a trifle pile, and he stepped up to the 
general and asked him just what he wan ted done. 

Then he hesitated a little and said: 

“‘General, thaFsa close place, and I may not 
get hack. Would you mind taking* care of this 
for me? If I get out, all right, but if I don’t,, 
won’t you let one of the boys take it over the 
mountains to Luray 7 It’s only my little girl’ s 
picture , Jf be added, “but Fd rather know yon 
had it than those fellows over there. ’ ’ 

“‘May I look at asked the general. 

“Of course, if you want to. She’s the only 
girl, and as much like her mother as one apple- 
blossom’s like another. " 

He opened the case for the general to look,, 
and sure enough it was a little girl’s picture,, 
with curly hair and big, soft blue eyes, and 
mischief all around her mouth, just like she 
was a laughing to herself. As for the general, 
he seemed to be taken with a sudden cold or 
something, for he turned his head away, and 
used his handkerchief freely, and it seemed as 
if the cold had got in his eyes, too, for he wiped 
them more than once. He had little girls him- 


’Will Nebmtjnds^s Christmas. 79 

self, so I heard, and that made him and Will 
close together at once, and I heard him say to 
himself like: 

“It shall go if I have t© take it myself.'” 

He put it carefully away in his pocket, but I 
think more solemn than usual, and his voice — 
he had one of the sweetest voices I ever heard 
— it was like the low, soft notes ©f a flute, and 
deep as low* thunder. 

But Will did not wait for further orders. He 
stepped down to where there was an old engine- 
house, part of one of the old broken-down loco- 
motives was still standing there, and got a lot 
of cotton waste, greasy stuff, seme splinters of 
dry wood, and 01T he started. 

The “Yanks” saw him, of course, but I do 
not think they rightly understood just what he 
was after — may be they thought the cotton 
waste was a sort of flag of truce — but any way 
they did not fire a gun until he had walked all 
the way down to the bridge, though it must 
have been nearly a hundred yards. 

He crept d-own under the timbers, on the 
Culpeper side, and in a minute or so smoke 
was rising. 

When the enemy saw what he was driving 
at there must have been a thousand guns a 
minute. I suppose the bridge- timbers kept 
him pretty safe, and we watched him from 
where we stood, putting on logs and bits of 


8o 


Southland Stories. 


timber, just as cool as if he was getting ready 
to scald hogs, until finally the whole thing was 
in a blaze and then he started back. How he 
ever got back alive must have been a miracle; 
for he stood about as good a chance of dodging 
between raindrops in a shower as miss being 
hit by some of the bullets. But they say a man 
can not die until his time comes and I almost 
believe it; for Will’s coat was full of bullet 
holes, and three through his hat. You or I 
would have run back, but Will felt, I suppose, 
that the eyes of the generals of both armies 
were on him, a sort of general review I may 
say. Do you know he walked back just as 
dignified as though he was on dress parade? 
It was the finest thing I ever saw, and I heard 
the general say that he almost envied him his 
distinction. 

As quick as a flash, almost, Pelham’s guns 
were in position, and, when they began to talk 
the enemy had plenty to do to answer, without 
troubling Will, and when he got up where the 
general stood he reached out his hand, and the 
general shook it as though Will was an old 
friend he had not seen for years. And what do 
you suppose Will said ? 

“General, I didn’t mean to shake hands, I 
only wanted my little girl back again.” 

But I tell you he was proud of that hand- 
shake all the same. 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 8i 

But about the Christmas story ? Well, I de- 
clare, when I get to talking about these old 
times I almost forget where I am; or that lam 
not there still. This minute I can see that 
grand old gentleman, “Mars Bob, n we used to 
call him — behind his back, of course — and hear 
him speak. As I said before he had the most 
beautiful voice and the kindest eye. It was 
pleasant to hear him speak, even if you did not 
know what he was saying. They say soldiers 
are butchers, but that man was no butcher. 
When I was at school I remember reading a 
story of an old gentleman who was mightily 
pestered by a big fly, that kept lighting on his 
bald head, and at last he caught it and instead 
of killing it he hoisted the window and put it 
out, saying that there was room enough in the 
world for them both. Well, to my mind, the 
general was a great deal like that old gentle- 
man; he would not hurt a fly much less a man 
or a child. And he was just as polite to the 
raggedest private in the ranks as he was to 
General Hill himself. 

We were in winter quarters at Grange Court- 
house, and it was rough weather and hard times 
for the army. You can judge for yourself, 
when I tell you that for a whole month we 
hadn’t a blessed thing in camp to eat but com 
meal. As for meat, well there might have been 
a little once a week, or such a matter; and it 


82 


Southland Stories. 


was, if anything, worse than it was below 
Petersburg in *64, when we had a pint of corn 
meal and a quarter of a pound of bacon, when 
we could get the bacon. We had a review I 
remember one day, and the general himself 
passed along the line. You would have thought 
he was not looking, but he was, and he stopped 
a few paces below me and says to one of the 
men: ‘‘Where’s your hat, my man ?” 

“Under my feet, General,” said the poor 
fellow, and sure enough it was true. He had 
not a scrap of shoe to his foot, and had pulled 
off his old hat and was standing on it to keep 
his feet off the frozen ground. 

The general heaved a big sigh, and looked 
troubled, and he took the name and regiment 
of the poor devil, asking the colonel for it, of 
course, for he did everything like a gentleman, 
and that same evening he sent the man a pair 
of shoes from his own private stock, and with 
the shoes sent a message that made the boy so 
proud he would hardly speak to the remainder 
of the company for a time. 

It was during this winter that Will Nedmunds 
got leave to go home. He did not ask for a 
regular furlough, for he was a scout and might 
be needed at camp for special duty at any time. 
I said he got it to go home, but it was not likely 
that he would go anywhere else, as he had not 
seen his folks for some months. 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 83 

He struck out straight for the gap in the 
ridge, the nearest way home, and I expect that 
horse of his did as good duty on that home trip 
as he had ever done in the face of the enemy. 
As he went over the hill beyond the camp, the 
sun was just setting and the band was playing 
“Home, Sweet Home.” It seemed like it was 
intended, it was so like what might be. But 
there was not a man in all that camp who 
would have called Will back, or taken his leave 
from him, fora man like Will, who was always 
so ready to do a good turn by others was bound 
to have friends. 

Camp and soldier life is a great thing for 
bringing a fellow out in his true character. 
You can not play the hypocrite there, nor sail 
under false colors. A man may be as mean as 
a dog at home, and it may be people away from 
home will not find it out; but I will defy any 
man to be anything but himself in camp life. 
And I am sure there is no place under heaven 
where meanness gets less favor shown it than 
among soldiers. At least that’s my observa- 
tion. 

I was detailed for scout duty in the Valley 
not long after Will left for home, but it was 
long enough for us to wonder, in camp, what 
had become of him. For, not many days after 
he left, a furloughed man came back and said 
he had come by Will’s home, and his wife had 


8 4 


Southland Stories. 


not seen or heard a word from him, except that 
he was coming home on leave. The colonel 
said he was sure something had happened, for 
Will was not the man to shirk duty, and he 
would have been worse than a brute if he had 
not gone as straight home as his horse could 
carry him. We did have a few men who got 
leave of absence and went over into West Vir- 
ginia, as they called that slice of mountains 
they took from the old State, but Will Ned- 
munds was not that sort. So the first thing I 
did when I got over in the Valley, near Front 
Royal, was to strike out for Will’s home, and 
see his wife, and, if I could, find out something 
about him. 

It was up near Luray, and I had a few days 
to spare. I had to slip between the lines, for 
the “Yanks” were pretty thick, and were mak- 
ing their brags about not leaving enough for a 
crow to feed on ; and they came very near doing 
it, too. But anybody can fight women and 
children, and as for burning houses and barns, 
anybody can tell you that the wild Indians 
used to do that. The enemy had moved up the 
Valley, and had a force at Woodstock, and 
around Front Royal, and although I could have 
gone around by Little Washington and across 
the ridge that way, it was too much trouble to 
go so far out of my way, so I slipped in between 
the pickets along the edge of the ridge, and got 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 85 


through without trouble, though I did stumble 
on one half-frozen “Dutch Yank,” standing 
picket and took his things away from him — I 
did not want him — I was going the wrong way 
for that — a prisoner would have been in my 
way. 

It was Christmas Eve, in the morning. The 
sun rose over the ridge and painted a clear- 
weather sign in the clouds, bright and red and 
gold. It was wonderfully pretty, and I wish I 
had the way of telling such things Will had; 
but then he was a sort of natural born poet, so 
the colonel said, and everything he told was 
like a sweet story or song — these things come 
natural to some people; but it was not my luck 
to be anything more than just a plain, every- 
day sort of plodder, with not a bit of poetry 
in me, though, I think, I appreciated it in other 
people, certainly in Will. Away down in the 
Valley the fog lay like a wide sea, white and 
smooth, with here and there a tree-top sticking 
up through it as if a ship had gone down and 
left a tall mast above the water to tell the tale 
of loss and death. A little white cloud slid 
down the side of the mountain floating along 
like a bit of smoke and vanishing into nothing, 
like life goes out in the night and the spirit flies 
away, away — but now I do believe I’m just 
repeating something I heard Will say one night 
as we sat by the camp-fire and talked. I know 


SG 


Southland Stories. 


it was sharp and frosty in the mountain, al- 
though I remember the season was mild, and, 
the days, when the sun came out, were rather 
warm. 

It was a queer way of spending Christmas 
Eve, prowling around in these mountains, when 
one ought to be peaceably at home for Christ- 
mas. But it was as it was ordered by a higher 
hand than mine, and so all I had to do was to 
obey. I was young and adventurous and was 
rather looking for trouble than dodging it. So 
I went on, looking for Will’s home, which was 
up in the mountain, not far from Luray, and 
in an out-of-the-way sort of place. 

One trouble I had about getting along fast 
was that people would stop me to ask the news. 
Up in those places, far away from everybody, 
about the only way they had of getting the 
news was to stop passers-by and hear it that 
way. I remember one old man, feeble and 
shaky, stopping me and asking if I had heard 
from his son Sam. Poor old fellow ! he was 
failing in mind, no doubt, for he asked me over 
and over all about Sam, not being able to 
remember the remainder of the name. It was 
surely pitiful to see him, with his long white 
hair blowing in the wind, and his shaky, trem- 
bling voice — he had forgotten his own name, 
but not that of his son — and the tears ran down 
the furrows in his cheeks, and his voice quiv- 


Will Nedmunbs’s Christmas. 87 

ered as he shook his head sadly, saying that 
Sam went with the cavalry years ago, and some 
news had come to him that he was killed, and 
other news that he died far away in a Northern 
prison, but he did not know how it was, but 
may be I could tell him about his son. Poor 
old fellow ! I did know, but it was no use trying 
to tell him, for Sam was one of my own fellow- 
soldiers — and as brave as brave could be, and 
a kindlier soul never lived this side of heaven. 
I remember him at Fredericksburg, how the 
“Yanks” were lying thick as leaves in Novem- 
ber, just outside the breastworks — poor fellows, 
they made a mighty brave charge that time, 
but they might as well have charged against 
the side of this mountain — and they lay groan- 
ing and calling for water. Sam Winston, brave 
boy ! was just a few steps down the line, and 
he called to me that the cries of the wounded 
were more than he could stand. There was 
one man, a fine-looking fellow, not ten feet 
away, dreadfully wounded, and calling for 
water, and what should Sam do but jump over 
the earthwork, canteen in hand, the bullets 
flying, and shells bursting, and he went up to 
the poor dying man and lifted his head, gave 
him a drink from his canteen, and put his 
broken limb3 in an easier position, and ran 
back, without a scratch. That was Sam Win- 
ston and here was his poor old father, so weak- 


88 


Southland Stories. 


minded he had forgotten his own name, but 
remembered his son’s ! 

I suppose I was about a hundred yards or so 
from Will’s house, when I saw in the road just 
ahead of me a little girl, and as she turned her 
head, bless me ! if she wasn’t the original of 
the picture Will had the day he burned the 
bridge. She had seen me coming, or heard 
the horse’s hoofs in the road, and she put up 
her hand to shield her eyes from the sun; and 
seeing I was not a “Yank,” came running to* 
wards me calling out: “Oh, I was in hopes 
you was papa; we expect him every day — don’t 
you know him ?” 

“It’s him I’m looking for now, little girl,” 
I said. “I was in hopes I’d find him home 
with you. We belong to the same company 
and the same mess down at the camp in 
Orange. Hasn’t he come home at all?” 

And then I saw I had made a mistake, and 
destroyed her little hopes; no, not all, for a 
child’s hopes bloom always fresh; but I saw a 
cloud come over her sweet face and the big 
blue eyes fill up with tears, and I felt as mean 
almost as if I had told her a lie. 

We walked along the path, we two, I leading 
the horse, and she holding my hand. In a 
minute or so her pretty face grew brighter, and 
she told me in the sweetest childlike way of 
how her papa had written that he would be 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 89 

home a month ago, to spend Christmas, on a 
leave of absence, and how her ma had expected 
him, and got what she could ready to make 
him welcome; though I said to myself that 
God knows the woman who would marry Will 
and then not make him welcome home from 
the army must be a hard one ! And so the 
dear child rattled on about the baby and about 
papa, and about her dear, dear mother, till we 
were at the door. 

Somebody inside heard voices, and the door 
opened quickly. I saw such a face ! I suppose 
she had hoped it was Will come at last, and 
when she saw only the child and me the glad 
look faded and a sign hung out of such utter 
pain and heart-misery as only can appear on a 
woman’s face, and a woman who loves, and 
has well nigh lost hope. But in a minute she 
brightened up, for women have a wonderful 
way of clearing up as it were — I think it’s easier 
for their souls to peep out of their eyes than it 
is for men’s — at least I heard Will say that. 
She looked very pale and thin, as if she had 
had but little food. When I saw that face I 
knew just what made Will the sort of man he 
was. She had never seen me, but Will had 
written to her about me, so it was not as if I 
I were a stranger. She asked me all about 
him, but I am afraid if you had put me on oath 


90 


Southland Stories. 


a minute afterwards I could not have told what 
I said. 

“No,” she said to me, “Will hadn’t come 
home, and not a word from him since his letter 
saying he would be home such a day, as near 
as he could. A passing scout had brought the 
letter, and later some one else passing that way 
said that they had seen Will on the road, near 
the gap in the mountain.” That was all. No, 
not all, but she could hardly tell the rest, for — 
and here she stopped and turned her head 
away — “his horse had come home, with the 
bridle and saddle on, and the stirrup-leather 
cut in two as with a bullet !” 

There was not much talk after that. The 
girl took the baby, a big chunk of a boy, and a 
small Will he was all over — took him out of 
doors, and the woman tried to talk again; but 
it was hard work, and I could see she was not 
thinking about me at all, but just thinking 
aloud about Will. I thought I knew him right 
well, but when I saw what a hold he had on 
that woman’s heart and heard what she thought 
of him, I gave it up. I only wish there was 
somebody to talk that way about me ! 

But she did not believe he was dead: no, not a 
bit of it. And I tell you I had a very queer feel- 
ing to come over me as I sat there and heard 
her telling of a sort of vision at night and of 
seeing Will. It wa3 really awful, for she saw 


'Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 91 

things so plainly ! I remember hearing a man 
read something out of a book, he called it 
* ‘Idlings of the Kings,” or some such name, 
and it seemed that there was some wonderful 
and holy thing no one could see unless that one 
was perfectly pure and clean and had always 
been sinless. And it seemed to me that this 
woman saw, for her eyes grew brighter as she 
talked, and her voice clear and strong, and 
sounded as cheerfully as that of a mocking- 
bird in the spring, as she told me that she had 
this vision and saw him as plainly as if it had 
been clear day. No, she was not dreaming at 
all, for her eyes were wide open, and she saw 
the stars shining bright and clear through the 
window, and she heard the chickens crowing 
for day. She saw him riding over the moun- 
tain road, on his way home. He was near the 
top of the ridge and instead of keeping up the 
mountain on the main road he turned to the 
right and vanished out of sight. 

All this was strange enough, but what she 
saw afterwards was still more so. Soon she 
said she saw him again, and now he seemed to 
be hurt, and was on foot, dragging one leg 
along. Then the vision changed, and he was 
lying on a bed somewhere, and although she 
could not tell where, yet it seemed as if it must 
be near the place she first saw him. An old 
black man was sitting by the bed, and there 


92 


Southland Stories. 


was an open fire. The place had a strange 
look, with the house- walls more like rock than 
timbers. Here the vision ceased, and she saw 
nothing more of him or the place. 

I asked her what she made out of all this, 
for it was a long way ahead of my thinking 
powers. In all my days I had never had to do 
with visions like these, and they brought no 
thought of help to my brains. 

“I think,” she said, “that, as he was on the 
way home his horse fell, or something happened 
to him, and that he is now up in the mountain, 
alive but not able to get away.” 

Well, I did not know what to say to all that. 
I was not much disposed to take stock in 
dreams, and I rather think we are apt to dream 
about what we think will happen and get this 
mixed up with what has happened. But I saw 
very plainly that she believed in that dream, 
or vision; and as for myself, I had not the 
heart to say a word; but so far as that is con- 
cerned, I do not believe anything I could have 
said would have shaken her faith in all this. 
A woman’s belief is not like a man’s. We 
want proof of a thing; they do not seem to 
care a bit ichy they believe it, but just go on 
believing; and after all I do not know but that 
they are right more frequently than we men, 
with our clumsy arguments, and it saves time 
and trouble. 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 93 

Night had fallen, hut it was not yet quite 
dark. She said to the girl “Run and pick up 
some chips, I must cook a little supper.” I 
could see she did not want them around just 
then, and as she shut the door she took from a 
barrel that stood behind it a few ears of corn 
and handed them to me for my horse, and she 
kind o’ laughed — but it was a sort of laugh 
that hurt me — as she went on: can eat 

his raw, ice have to parch ours.” I don’t know 
whether you believe me or not, but as true as 
you hear me speak she went on to say that she 
and the children had not had a thing to eat for 
a week except parched corn and water. 

I went out of the house. This was uncom- 
fortable for me. To think of a delicate woman 
and two little children living on parched corn 
and water — I suppose I’ll have to call it living ! 

I had a good haversack of eatables. You 
know a soldier soon learns that his first duty, 
after obeying orders, of course, is to keep his 
haversack filled, and I got that thing off the 
pommel of my saddle and called those children 
and gave them all of it. I did not dare to 
trust myself back in the house, but told them 
to take it to their mother; and added that if 
they did not eat the last scrap of it then and 
there, I’d go right oif without saying good-bye. 

The stars had come out and were shining 
brightly as camp fires in the sky. Over the 


94 Southland Stories, 

end of the mountain the new moon peered, 
looking like a bright hit of clear water in a 
black distance. I thought of home, when I 
was a little boy and “rode a bag” to mill across 
this very ridge, that lay so like a shadow in the 
night; and how I cried because my hands almost 
froze, and how I stopped under the grape vines 
to pick the wild grapes, all covered with frost; 
and then I thought of the road over the moun- 
tain, the one she saw Will take in the vision, 
and all of a sudden an idea flashed over me. I 
knew that road she had seen him take up the 
mountain side, just this side of the ridge. Why 
I did not recognize it from her description of it 
I can not imagine, unless it was because I was 
not expecting it. You know we nearly always 
see what we expect. 

I went into the house and told that woman I 
was under orders to go over the ridge into Cul- 
peper that night. I was ashamed and almost 
afraid to tell her the truth, that I knew about 
that road, and so I told her a bit of a fib; I 
hope to be forgiven for it, for I meant it for 
the best. I did not wait for that horse of mine 
to finish his corn, so you may know I was in a 
hurry, but started for the gap. 

It was a good ten miles to the foot of the 
mountain, but I travelled it before midnight, 
and I honestly believe my horse knew some- 
thing* of what I was about, for he travelled 


Will Nedmunbs’s Christmas. 


95 


like he was going to the stable. I suppose it 
was towards midnight, when I got to the top of 
the ridge — I was not noticing so very much — 
in fact I got to thinking about women and the 
wonderful ways they have until I really began 
to believe that they were some strange and 
superior beings, with ways past finding out by 
us men. And don’t you know, just as I got to 
the top of the ridge that horse turned into a 
bridle-path, on the left hand ! I declare to you 
that I was riding with slack rein and really did 
not know I had come to it. I do not undertake 
to explain this, all I have to do is to ask you 
to believe it. I suppose it was a sort of horse- 
sense the creature had. Any way he turned in, 
and it was not more than a few hundred yards 
before I had to get down and lead him, the way 
was so rough. 

I said I was leading the horse, but as a mat- 
ter of fact I was going where he seemed to 
want to go, and soon I heard a dog bark, and 
then about half a dozen ran out barking and 
howling like I was a thief. I’ve come to a 
darkey’s house, I said to myself, for nobody 
but a darkey would ever keep so many dogs, 
and the poorer they are the more dogs they 
have. I heard a man’s voice, and then another 
— I knew it at once, there was but one such in 
the world — it was Will’s ! 

Only one person came out though. He was 


0<3 


Southland Stories. 


an old darkey who had lived over on the Cul- 
peper side of the ridge, and who ran away 
about the first of the war. I can not stop to 
tell you about it now; and inside was Will. 

Yes, there was Will, with a bad leg, unable 
to put a foot to the ground, but in good condi- 
tion, and with one question for me: Had I 
seen his wife and children ? When I told him 
how I had left them not many hours before, 
and they were well, I never saw a man look so 
contented. Not much for contentment to be 
on top the ridge with a broken leg, in an old 
darkey’s cabin, but he looked happy. The 
truth is it does not take much to make us happy 
if we take it right. I have seen a cheerful 
word do more for some people than half a farm 
would do for some discontented ones. 

Could I get him home? That was the main 
thing. He thought he could ride my horse, 
and I was only too willing for this. But we 
would arrange for this in the morning. I 
wanted to know how it happened that he was 
here, hurt, on top the ridge ? 

So he told me a story so queer that if it had 
been anybody but Will, I would hardly have 
believed it. But so it was, and I am sure it 
was just this way. 

He came over the Culpeper side of the moun- 
tain without any trouble, but heard that the 
“Yanks” were out somewhere in the Valley, 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 97 

just where he was not sure. He was so used 
to going about among the hills and facing all 
sorts of adventures that I suppose he was not 
as careful as he might have been; at all events, 
just as he started to go down into the valley on 
the Luray side, he turned a corner in the road 
and there was a Yankee picket not ten yards 
away with his gun pointing straight at him. 
He said something or other in Dutch, or some 
“furrin” language, any way Will did not under- 
stand him or get time to surrender, even if he 
had that in his mind; though as he said, he had 
not much notion of surrendering that close to 
home. But before he had time to even pull 
out a pistol the “Dutch Yank” banged away 
at him and the bullet broke Will’s leg, cutting 
the stirrup-leather and he tumbled off just as 
the horse shied. He did not wait to say a 
word — the Dutchman of a “Yank” — but banged 
away like Will was all of Jackson’s corps. As 
luck would have it none of the bullets hit him, 
and by that time Will had got his hands free, 
and his revolver out. The Dutchy was work- 
ing away at his rifle, but it had got stuck some 
way, and Will said he supposed he was “cuss- 
ing in Dutch.” At all events Will sent a bullet 
through that part of his head where his brains 
ought to be, and he never waited to be relieved 
of picket duty, but quit then and there for 
good. 


98 


Southland Stories. 


But Will heard a bugle blow and horses trot- 
ting, and felt sure the enemy would be on him 
in a minute. The best he could do was to walk 
and drag his broken leg after him; but it was 
not so very painful, so he said. He told me 
that he had once caught a fox in a steel trap, 
and how the creature gnawed off his foot to 
get out, and he thought to himself if that fox 
could do that to get his freedom, surely I can 
stand this leg. So he managed to drag himself 
to some bushes, and laid there for a minute 
watching. Then, too, his heart was full of his 
wife and children, and his blood was up too, 
for you know that in a mess like that one does 
not feel the pain like he does when in bed at 
home. I knew one of the boys who was shot 
through the shoulder and did not know he was 
hurt till somebody saw the blood running down 
bis arm. But no amount of grit will keep a 
fellow from getting faint when he bleeds; and 
by the time Will had crawled a few steps 
farther he just keeled over in a dead faint, and 
lay there for how long he did not know till 
afterwards. 

Just what scared the “Yanks” he did not 
know either, but something did, and they 
moved off as fast as though they thought Old 
Jack was after them. It might have been that 
they thought Will was the advance guard; but 
it is no use guessing about it; and when he did 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 99 

awake he seemed in a sort of cave, and a good 
big one, too, lying on a soft bed of straw, and 
on the other side of the cave was a fire blazing 
up against the rocky wall, and by the fire sat 
an old darkey singing to himself, “Possum Up 
De Gum Tree. ’ ’ He was not sure, he said after- 
wards, whether he was awake or not, for his 
head was dizzy, and he seemed like two people; 
but he felt some how that he was in a safe 
place, and so he laid still. 

Pretty soon the old darkey turned around 
and he could not help exclaiming: “Joe Wil- 
liams, by all that’s good !” 

I’ll have to tell you now, so you’ll under- 
stand, that Joe was a darkey that had run away 
at the beginning of the war, because he said he 
was afraid of being sold to Georgia. He did 
not mind being a slave in Virginia; for he said 
them that wanted to make their own living and 
take the risks could be free; but as for him he 
was not going to do any more work than he 
could help, and he would take the chance of 
fooling the master about a day’s work, and they 
could trust him to get plenty to eat. If there 
was not meat enough at home there was plenty 
in the neighborhood. So he ran away and hid 
in the mountains, and his master said he could 
stay there for his part; he was not worth catch- 
ing. As for selling him to Georgia, he had too 


100 


Southland Stories. 


much pity for those people to send them such 
a nigger as Joe. 

So when he called out old Joe’s name, he 
turned around and came over to where he was 
lying, and told Will how he had tumbled down 
just a little way from his den, and he had picked 
him up, knowing him at sight, and brought him 
in, and “please de Lawd he wasn’t gwine ter 
let him suffer.” He had bound up his leg and 
managed to stop the blood, and got out from a 
sort of closet in the rocks a pretty good sized 
ham, and some sweet potatoes he raked out of 
the hot ashes, and Will rolled over and ate 
supper. 

The first question Will asked him was if he 
had heard from his folks in the Valley. But 
Joe was not disposed to talk much about what 
was outside of the cave; for he confessed that 
he did not go out much, leastways not till dark. 
There were neighbors around, not so very far 
off, and they had meat houses, and “’twarn’t 
the fashion to lock ’em, and he jis’ borrowed 
suffin’ ter eat till he could turn it back ergin.” 
He had some real coffee, too, which he said he 
got from the “Yanks.” 

Will asked why he did not go off with the 
army and be free. But he seemed to have his 
feelings hurt at that, and did not care to speak 
about it. Will tried to make him talk on that 
subject, but the old fellow got mad and said he 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 


ioi 


hacl been down in camp last summer, but “dey 
warn’t no fit-ten comp’ny fur er decent nigger 
ter ’sociate wid.” He went on to tell how, “he 
was ’gaged ter cook fer er man dey calls majah, 
en he had one o’ dem newfangled things dey 
calls er cookin’ stove, and he had it in de tent, 
wliar ’twas putty warm. En present’ y dat man 
he say ‘Teck dat nigger out’n hayar, he ’fends 
my nostrils.’ Yaas, suh, dat’s what he say. 
Call’ll’ me er nigger ! Dat’s what he say.” 

We sat there, Will and I, with old Joe back 
in the corner, nodding, until way in the mid- 
night. I had told him about his folks, of course, 
that is the first thing he asked me about, but I 
did not tell him about the parched corn. 

He began to sing — had a lovely voice — 
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow;” 
and Joe and I joined in; and there at midnight, 
away up on the mountain side, about the time 
of night I suppose the angels were singing over 
the heads of the shepherds away yonder in the 
Promised Land, so many hundred years ago, 
we sat and sang the Doxology; and I, for one, 
felt every word of it. 

So there we sat, planning how to get out to 
the wagon road and down to the valley the 
next morning, when that rooster of Joe’s began 
crowing. I looked out the door, thinking it 
was day, and sure enough it was light, only 
instead of its being in the East it was due 


102 


Southland Stories. 


North, the whole sky full of Northern lights, 
sometimes like rainbows, then changing quick 
as a flash to long streamers, then like signal 
rockets, and at last dying down like a far-off 
brush pile. 

I came in and sat by the fire again, and we 
talked — Will about his wife and children, I 
about camp, old Joe about dogs, coons and 
ghosts. Soon the rooster was crowing again, 
and this time it was daylight, the first faint 
change that makes the stars a little pale, though 
one big one shone so brightly in the far off sky, 
it looked like it might almost be the one we 
read about, when shepherds watched their 
flocks by night. 

I was just about to go in again, when I heard 
a light step behind me. I turned to see what 
it was, and I do not think I could have been 
more surprised if the general himself had rid- 
den up; for there was Will’s wife with that 
little blue-eyed girl, and the baby boy in her 
arms. Well, you talk about ghosts, but if I 
did not feel my hair rise then you can set the 
whole of this down as a pure invention. But 
it was no spirit I saw, but real flesh and blood, 
the same I had left in the valley last night. 

“I knew he was here, I knew it surely, let 
me go in to him.” 

“Wait a minute,” I said. I slipped inside 
and picked up old Joe’s gun. 


Will Nedmunds’s Christmas. 103 

“What’s the matter?” called out Will; he 
had no idea of what was going on. 

“Oh, I’m just going out to do a little hunt- 
ing,” I said — “come on, old man” — to Joe. 
And just as I came out I heard a joyful cry — a 
cry like that you can imagine of a mother whose 
child is laid out, dead and cold, and all fixed 
for the grave, if that child should suddenly 
rise up and throw its arms around its mother’s 
neck, and give her a good hug, such a cry of joy ! 

It was Christmas, such a Christmas ! I be- 
lieve now I can understand why those angels 
sang so beautifully that first Christmas so 
many hundreds of years ago, for they must 
have felt something like Will’s wife felt when 
she gave that joyful cry — she had found the 
loved and lost. 

The cave was no place for me or Joe either. 
And I give him credit for building a fire outside, 
and we stood by the fire and watched the sun 
come slowly up from over the Eastern slope, 
and both of us were as happy for Will almost 
as he was for himself and his little wife and 
babies. 

That’s all about Will. Of course, his leg got 
well, that is well enough to go about, but he 
was pretty lame, after that, and could never 
ride a horse again. You see the bone was not 
set as it should be, though old Joe did the best 
he could. 


104 Southland Stories. 

I suppose I told his story so often in camp, 
when I got back — as for Will, of course he could 
not go back — that after a while I almost began 
to think it was my own story, and that I was 
Will. You know you can tell a thing over and 
over until you can hardly tell whether it is 
true or not. One night I was sitting by the 
camp fire, telling over Will Nedmunds’s story, 
when I heard a deep, sweet voice behind me — 
nobody could ever mistake that voice — and the 
general touched me on the shoulder and said in 
his quiet way: “I want you to come up to 
headquarters and tell me all about Will Ned- 
munds’s Christmas, to-night. It is a very in- 
teresting story, and I want some of my friends 
to hear it.” 

And I went; and after that I staid at head- 
quarters as a regular orderly. 


SAM’S COURTSHIP. 


A S for Sam, he was certainly a negro, if 
utter blackness is any criterion. He 
was, so to speak, blue-black. One of the boys 
declared that be tried with a piece of charcoal, 
and it made a visibly light mark on Sam’s sable 
skin. Whether this be true or only an exag- 
geration, certainly Sam was invisible at night, 
and only ascertainable in pitch darkness by a 
certain subtle odor emanating from his sudorif- 
erous glands, an African ’scent, I believe it 
has been called. 

But he was thoroughly good natured, and I 
think would have made but a poor fight even 
in his own defense. I have read that the poor 
Africans are led off to be sold as slaves in their 
own country by the more ferocious members of 
other and more warlike tribes; and if this be 
true, I am sure Sam would have been one of 
the captives. A gentle slave, he, and willing 
and accommodating to a degree past compre- 
hension, except on the ground that he cared 
nothing for himself, and so was the more will- 
ing to do for others. He was about twenty, I 
should think; and, as the civil war had ended 


io6 Southland Stories. 

some years before, Sam was as much of a free- 
man as his unasserting nature allowed. 

He had numberless tricks, of a guileless sort, 
such as putting a piece of paper on one side of 
a table-knife and by dexterously turning the 
blade over make it appear to the children’s eyes 
that he shifted the paper at will to either side 
of the knife-blade; and of turning a stick in 
his hands so as to make it come to the top in a 
very mysterious manner. But the trick which 
caused the greatest wonderment was one of 
rolling up his eyes until only the whites were 
visible, and fixing them in this way to the 
astonishment and horror of the lookers-on, 
while some of the older members of his tribe 
would remonstrate with him and ask the awful 
question: “Jes’ ’spose you wuz struck so?” 
meaning how awful if the face were suddenly 
fixed in its new and contorted form. I have 
wondered sometimes if some of those more 
than ordinarily hideous faces we see on some 
of the South Sea Island gods were not copied 
from the grimaces of some one of the tribe who 
had Sam’s gift of facial contortion. But this 
is no part of Sam’s story, and so I proceed. 

Sam had attached himself to me as a sort of 
body-servant or valet, self- constituted in a 
measure, for he was what we call in Virginia, a 
“house-boy,” that is, brought up in the house, 
and trained to wait on the table, and perform 


Sam's Courtship. 


107 


such other services as his position indicated. 
In all warm weather he brought me cool water, 
fresh from the spring, for my morning ablu- 
tions, his old mammy ordering him into such 
service with a peremptoriness as only belongs 
to an old Virginia cook. The kitchen and its 
desmenes were territory to invade which 
brought down a storm of wrath that not even 
<l the mistress" cared to invoke. In the cooler 
weather Sam kindled the fire in my open hearth, 
his mother ordering this — “Fer, doan 1 you 
know, boy, you Marster Jeems ’bleeged ter haf 
er fier ter git up by: de use ter hit all de lives; 
en he kotch he death er cole ’dout dat fier." 

So Sam brought the water, and made the fire, 
serving me as a Ferdinand to a Prospero; no 
Caliban was he, and I am sure never coveting 
my place or its perquisites. 

But laterly I noticed a certain moodiness in 
Sam, far from his old-time good naturedness. 
<l His countenance fell" several degrees, and 
while he laughed still, it lacked the spontaneity 
of old, and Sam was certainly “out of sorts." 

One morning he came into n^y room rather 
early, and essayed to kindle, as usual, my 
morning fire. Half asleep I heard him grum- 
bling, a new thing for Sam. “Dis hayar fier 
woan’ bu’n, en dis hayar light’ d knot woan’ 
ketch, en de cliimbley woan’ draw, en de woan’ 
nuttin’ ’t all do right. Things sutt’nly is corn- 


io8 Southland Stories. 

trary, en de all comes plumb tergedder. ’T 
always is de way; w’en one wucks wrong de all 
wucks wrong.” 

A new Shakespeare, I thought, is Sam. 
“When sorrows come, they come not single 
spies, but in battalions” — we all know the 
quotation; and here was Sam, who knew not a 
word of Shakespeare, and who had not even 
heard of The Bard, having the same idea, in 
not so far from the same language as William 
of Avon. Well, I thought, we are much alike, 
and the classes are not so widely separated 
after all. But finally “the chimbley drawed” 
to Sam’s satisfaction, and he arose from his 
knees, and brought in the water. He glanced 
sheepishly around, looked several times as if 
he was about to speak, and as suddenly did 
not; and finally at the door he turned about 
and with a slight stammer, never noticeable 
except when greatly embarrassed, called my 
name. He always called me “Marster Jeems,” 
although, as I said before, he was free by the 
act of war, the most decisive of all acts, and 
one seldom appealed from. 

“Marster Jeems, kin I speak ter you jes’ er 
minnit ?” 

“Certainly, Sam, of course; what is, what’s 
the trouble? You’ve had it on hand for some 
time.” 

“How you know dat, Marster Jeems ? How 


Sam's Courtship. 


109 

you know dat; anybody been tellin’ you any- 
thin’ ?” 

“No, no one has told me a thing, but it don’t 
take much of a doctor to see that you are wor- 
ried about something. What’s the matter?” 

“Dat’s jes’ what I ’s wantin’ ter ax you 
’bout,” said Sam, turning if possible about 
two shades darker than before. “Dat’s jes' 
what I wan’ ter ax you ’bout. I’ s in er mighty 
tangle; I is, en how in de name er Gord I gwine 
ter git hit onrabbled ! Its er wusser tangle ’ n 
sheep-burs in er nigger’s wool. I ’s putty nigh 
’stracted, en ’bout ready ter gin it up.” 

“Well, tell me all about it. Is it ’Manda?” 

“Nor, suli, hit ain’ dat gal; she’s all right. 
She doan’ worry me none. Nor, suh, ’tain’ 
her.” 

“Well, its a woman, anyhow; I’m quite sure 
of that.” 

“How you know dat, Marster Jeems — how 
you fin’ dat out?” said Sam, the slightest sus- 
picion of a grin invading his face. “Like ter 
know how you fin’ dat out. I ain’ sayin’ nut- 
tin’ ’bout no gal,” continued he, evidently 
rather pleased than otherwise that I had 
divined his secret. “You sutt’nly is knowin’, 
Marster Jeems; ’twuz er woman sho’ ’nuff.” 
And Sam actually showed his teeth with much 
the broadest grin I had seen on his face for 
days. 


no 


Southland Stories, 


“Sit down there, Sam. and tell me all about 
this.” 

‘ ‘Thankee suh, but I doan’ keer ter set down, 

I feels better stannin’ which seemed to be the 
fact, as he was going through a peculiar set of 
“motions,” I heard him subsequently denomi- 
nate as the “wriggles.” 

“Well, just as you prefer. Go on — no, hand 
me that box of cigars and a match, and I’ll 
smoke while you talk.” 

“Deed, Marster Jeems, you ’s de onliest gen- 
termun I kin meek free ter talk ter. Least- 
ways you done loos’ n de string o’ my tongue, 
en I gwine ter tell you de plain troof, en no 
lies, so he’p me de good Marster. 

“You know, Marster Jeems, when you sont 
me over ter Dr. Miller’s wi’ dat note ter de doc- 
tor lars’ spring, I had ’n no mo’ notion o’ co’tin’ 
en I had er fly in’. Gals wuz jes’ gals, dat’s 
all de wuz, en I dances wi’ ’em en ’seorts ’em 
ter chu’ch, en all dat, but I had ’n no mo’ no- 
tion o’ co’tin’ ’n you. En w’en I gits over ter 
Maple Grove en knocks at de front do’ I wuz ez 
innercent ez er baby ’dout any teeth. En w’en 
de doctor reads de note he steps ter de do’, en 
he say: ‘Is you de boy w’at brung dis note; I 
sutt’nly is ’bleeged ter you.’ He talks ter me 
jes’ like I wuz er sho’ ’nufF gentermun. En he 
say, ‘I ain’ quite done breakfus’, en you better 
step inter de kitchen en git some yo’se’f, ef 


Sam’s Courtship. 


hi 


you ain’ hed none.’ Co’se I warn’ gwine tell 
him I hed breakfus’, w’en he jes’ say I ain’ hed 
none. Dat warn’ perlite. En Sam always 
mecks hit er pint ter eat w’en eatin’ place en 
eatin’ time come. So I goes inter de kitchen, 
en I sees old Polly, w’at cooks fer de doctor, en 
she say, ‘How do, Sam, teck dat cheer.’ So I 
tecks de cheer en ’gins de compliments, en wuz 
lookin’ ’round fer de breakfus’, when de dinin’ 
room do’ opens, en er gal come out wi’ er plate 
in her han\ en she say ter Polly, ‘Is you got 
mo’ hot buckwheat cakes ?’ En Polly say, ‘In 
er minnit, dis griddle need greasin’ fus’. En 
den she say, ‘Dis is Mr. Sam Johnson, Miss 
Turner.’ 

“I look ’roun’ at dat gal she call Miss Turner, 
en she gigglin’ so she let de plate fall out’n her 
han’ mos’. En I say, ‘How you do, Miss?’ 
‘Oh, I’s fus’ rate, how’s you?’ she say. En I 
say, ‘I’s able ter eat my ’lowance.’ En she 
say, ‘I specks you is; you got mouf big ’nuff 
fer two Towances. ’ En dat mecks me feel right 
easy wi’ her, en I up’s en tells her I gits de 
’lowance eny way, mor’n she I ’specks. 

“By dat time de cakes wuz brown on bofe 
sides, en Polly she say ter dat gal, ‘You better 
run wi’ dem cakes while de ’s right hot off ’n de 
griddle — de ain’ fitt’n fer ter eat ’dout de ’s hot; 
min’, now, mun, you better run.’ En dat gal, 
she cut en run fru’ dat dinin’ room do’, en ez 


1 12 


Southland Stories. 


she dodge in she stick her haid in de crack en 
say, ‘Good-bye, Mr. Sam.’ En doan’ you 
know, Marster Jeeros, I feels sumfin’ crawlin’ 
down my back, jes’ like ’t wuz hot en cole at 
de same time. 

“Den I says ter Polly: ‘What dat gal name ?’ 
En she say, ‘Miss Turner.’ But I say, ‘Oh, go 
’long, ole woman; w’at’s her Chris’mus name ?’ 
‘Oh,’ she say, ‘Ailsie.’ ’Fo’ de Lawd, suh, 
when I hayars dat name hit meek me feel right 
cuyus, fer dat ’s de name I done drempt ’bout 
lars’ Sunday night. En I says ter Polly, ‘Is 
you s/io’ dat ’s her name?’ ‘Sutt’nly, o’ co’se, 
you think I gwine lie ’bout de gal’s name? 
You mus’ think I ’s er fool.’ ‘Nor, I doan’, I 
says, ‘but dat de gal I drempt ’bout lars’ Sun- 
day night, sho’ ’s de’f; de ve’y one.’ En jes’ 
den de gal pop her haid in de do’, en she want 
mo’ buckwheat cakes, en she fotch back er 
whole passel er cole biskits en cakes, en she 
say ‘she warn’ gwine ter let her miss’s eat no 
cole cakes ’n biskits, de warn’ wholesome. ’ En 
I up ’ri say, ‘Let me see ef de ’s good fer my 
wholesome.’ En she larf en say, ‘De ’s good 
’nuff fer you ef de ’s stone cole.’ En wi’ dat 
she sot de plate right in my lap, en she tuck de 
jug en poured er whole lot er ’lasses on top de 
cakes, en she say, ‘Now, stuff yo’se’f, greedy.’ 
But I jes’ larfs en say, ‘Dese cakes is good, de 
sutt’nly is.’ But Polly say, ‘Sam, you got big 


Sam’s Courtship. 


113 

mouf, but you cayarnt git one o’ deni cakes in 
it widout doublin’ of it up, en it spiles buck- 
wheat cakes ter double ’em up. Ailsie, fotch 
Sam er knife en fo’k. ’ So she fotch me er knife 
en fo’k, en ez her han’ tetch mine, doan’ you 
know I feel dat creepin’ down my back, fus’ 
hot en den cole. 

“But I eats de cakes, do, spite o’ de creepin’, 
en den de calls me en tells me de doctor done 
writ de arnswer ter de note ter you, en I comes 
’long back. Jes’ ez I wuz tu’nin’ ’roun’ de 
cornder o’ de house, I see dat gal Ailsie go by 
de winder, en I feels dat creepin’ ’gin, plain ez 
kin be. 

“De nex’ day — doan’ you ’member it, Mars- 
ier Jeems, I ax you doan’ you wan’ ’nudder 
note tucken over ter de doctor’s, en you say, 
‘Yes, I b’l’eves I will; no, I won’ write no note: 
you jes’ say ter de doctor will he len’ me dat 
mag’zine’ — sho’ly you ’members dat — wi’ sum- 
fin’ ’bout de cotton states — I dis’ member jes’ 
what it wuz. So I goes over ter de doctor’s, 
en de fus’ thing I sees wuz dat gal Ailsie, scrub- 
bin’ off de front steps. I says, ‘Mawnin’,’ en 
she say, ‘How do, I ’s rale glad ter see you.’ 
En I feels dat cole en hot creepin’ ’gin, jes’ ez 
plain ez kin be. En she say ‘De doctor gone 
erway ; he gone ter see er sick lady — you better 
wait tell he come back.’ 

“So I goes inter de kitchen, en I sees ole 


Southland Stories. 


114 

Polly — she wttz wuckin’ ’bout de fierplace — cn 
pres’n’ly dat gal Ailsie corned in, en Polly she 
say she gwine inter de guarden ter git some 
things fer dinner, en I sot dar, hardly knowin’ 
what I wuz er doin’. En dat gal, she up ’n 
say, ‘You done los’ you mouf, ain’ you?’ So 
dat start me fer er little, en I say ‘I got mouf 
’nuff fer you any way.’ Den she say, ‘I doan’ 
wan’ you mouf, I ain’ worryin’ myse’f ’bout 
yon, boy.’ By dat time I ain’ keerin’ much, 
so I sot down right ’long side o’ her, en we 
chat erway jes’ like we knowed one ’nudder 
always. Den I hayar de doctor’s buggy rattlin’ 
’roun’ by de stable, en I says, I mus’ git out’n 
dis. 

“ ‘Whar you gwine?’ she ax me, en I tells 
her whar, en she say, ‘You mus’ come ergin, I 
rale glad ter see you.’ 

“De ve’y nex’ night, arfter I finish waitin’ 
on you, I starts fer de doctor’s ’gin, en I meets 
him at de tu’n o’ de lane, en he calls me en ax 
is I got any message fer him. En I tells him 
not jes’ dis time — I mout have one termorrow. 
He larfs, en say, ‘Better look out, Sam, dat gal 
fool you.’ But I ain’ lis’nin’ ter dat, en I go 
’long ter de hous’, en inter de kitchen. 

“Ailsie wuz washin’ de supper dishes, en 
Polly wuz foolin’ ’roun’ de fier, en w’en dat 
gal see me she say, ‘Ef hayar ain’ dat Sam 
’gin.’ En I say, ‘Ef hayar ain’ dat gal ’gin.’ 


Sam’s Courtship. 


115 

Den she larf, en Polly larf, en Polly say doan’ 
I wan’ go ter chutch, she wuz gwine. En I ax 
Ailsie wuz she gwine, en she say ‘No, she got 
some sewin’ ter do.’ So Polly go ’long, en 
Ailsie she say she b’l’eve she woan’ sew, she 
win’ off de hank. En she tuck de hank er yarn 
en put it on my han’s, en she say, ‘You better 
hoi’ dat hank right, I stick dis knittin’ needle 
in you eye.’ So we jaw at one ’nudder fer 
right long time, en by de time she git de thread 
all woun’ off I wuz gittin’ tangle myse’f — dat 
gal she mos’ too much fer me. Onct she gits 
de thread tangle en she ’tend she tryin’ ter 
ontangle it, but she ’pear’d like she tryin’ 
tangle me mor’n de thread. But we gits ’long 
right sociable do. So she gits de ball made en 
she say, ‘Oh, I ’s so ti’ed; ain’ you?’ ‘Nor,’ I 
say, ‘1 ain’ ti’ed, but ef you’s ti’ed I kin hoi’ 
you.’ But she say, ‘Looker hayar, boy, doan’ 
you tetch me.’ ‘I ain’ er tetcliin’ of you,’ I 
say, but I meek er grab at her han’, en I gins 
it er squeeze, en I say, ‘Do dat hu’t?’ I look 
on de inside o’ de han’ en I say, ‘I kin read 
han’s; you got er sweetheart.’ She jucks her 
han’ erway, en she say, ‘S’pose I is, ’tain’ none 
er you business. You better lef’ me ’lone.’ 
But I hoi’s on, en I say, ‘I gwine ter cunjer 
’im.’ En she say, ‘You dassent.’ ‘Yes I is,’ I 
says, jes’ foolin’ like. En I see she gittin’ sort 
er skeered, en I say, ‘Oh, I doan’ know nuttin’ 


n6 


Southland Stories. 


’bout cunjerin’ — I ’specks Polly do — I wuz jes’ 
foolin’. 

“Den she say, ‘I knowed er boy w’at got cun- 
j ured, en he done gone bline, en lose he fo’ 
senses. ’ En I say, ‘Who ?’ En she say, ‘Nuver 
mine, I know.’ En she say, ‘He ’bout you size, 
en he got big mouf like you, en big foot, too. 
I know he cay amt see, ’less he gone home ’fo’ 
dis.’ 

“Den I see she pokin’ fun at me, en I up ’n 
say, ‘Looker hayar, gal, fus’ thing you know 
I’ll knock you.’ En she say, ‘What you do wi’ 
all de peoples you knocks?’ En she larfs, en I 
larfs, en we wuz good friends ergin. So I gits 
’long side o’ her ergin, on de bench, en she 
fotch me some water in de go’rd, en I tells her 
I drink out’n de same side ez she drinks, en hit 
mecks us pardners. So we sets down ergin, en 
I tecks hoi’ er her han’, en I say, ‘Ailsie?’ 

“But she say, ‘I Miss Turner.’ ‘’Deed,’ I 
says, ‘I ain’ gwine call you no Miss. I call you 
by you Chris’ mus name much ez I please. You 
calls me Sam.’ So I squeeze her han’ er leetle 
en I ax, ‘Do dat hu’t?’ ‘Not much,’ she say, 
en she try ter pull de han’ erway, but I hoi’ on 
tight en fars’, en I say, ‘I gwine git me er 
sweetheart.’ She say, ‘Who ?’ En I say, ‘You.’ 
Den she say, ‘You got no business foolin’ dis 
way.’ ‘No, indeedy, I ain’ foolin’,’ I says, ‘I ’s 
downright earnes’.’ She say, ‘I b’l’eves you is 


Sam’s Courtship. 


117 

foolin’.’ ‘’Deed en double ’deed,’ I say, ‘I 
ain’ — I ’s in sho’ ’nuff earnes’.’ ‘I got gre’t 
min’ ter b’l’eve you jes’ er little,’ she say, en 
she roll her eye up at me en lean over my way 
some, en den I know I got her sho’. En den I 
say, ‘Is you sho’ you ain’ foolin’ ?’ ‘Not less’n 
you is,’ she say. So dat settles de matter, en 
pres’n’ly she say, ‘You got ter git me er ring.’ 
‘’Deed,’ I say, ‘I doan’ know so much ’bout 
dat; rings is bindin’.’ 

“’Deed,’ she say, ‘I ain’ gwine do er thing 
’dout er ring.’ So I had ter promise her de 
ring. En jes’ den I hayar er shufflin’ at de do’, 
en ole Polly corned in, en mos’ cotch me tryin’ 
ter kiss dat gal. I jumps up en sot on de bench, 
fur ’way f ’m Ailsie ez I could, but Polly she 
say, ‘You all look mighty cool settin’ dar, but 
I been watchin’ you fru’ de winder fer I doan’ 
know how long, en I gwine tell de doctor en 
you Marster Jeems too, dat I is.’ 

“But I say ‘I doan’ keer who you tells,’ en 
Ailsie, she jes’ larfs, but she foller me out ter 
de gate, en I say, ‘W'en you wan’ git married?’ 
But she say, ‘I ain’ studyin’ ’bout gittin’ mar- 
ried — hit ain’ time; ’sides I hayar Polly say 
’t wuz bad luck ter git married on de dark o’ de 
moon.’ ‘Well, de moon change,’ says I. ‘Yaas, 
en you change too, by dat,’ she say. So we 
jaw at one ’nudder erwhile en den she goes in, 
en I comes ’long home. But all de way cornin’ 


n8 Southland Stories. 

I feels dat creepin’ tip my back. Den I ’gins 
ter think I’s cunj tired dat meek dat quar feel- 
in’, but I gits home all right, en goes ter sleep 
en sleeps tell day. 

“Dat day de comes er boy over hayar f ’m de 
doctor’s wi’ er note f ’m dat gal, Ailsie — she kin 
write putty good — but de writin’ wuz mos’ too 
much fer me, so I cayars hit over ter de sto\ 
en gits dat boy w’at stay at de sto’ ter read her 
fer me, en he read hit sumfin’ like dis: 

“ ‘Mr. Sam Johnson: I done change my mine 
’bout w’at I wuz savin’ lars’ night. I got er 
sweetheart over de ribber, en I done sont fer 
him ter come back.’ 

“Well, ef dat did ’n knock me. I ax dat 
boy, ‘Is you sho ’ dat w’at writ’ in dat letter?’ 
en he say, ‘Co’se ’tis, you s’pose I kin read 
w’at ain* in de letter. S’pose you try ter read 
her yo’se’f !’ But I say, ‘Nor, I cayarnt read 
dat sort o’ writin’.’ So I puts de paper in my 
pocket en comes ’long home, en I feels mighty 
sheepish ’bout hit, I kin tell you. I thinks I 
sells myse’f fer er quarter ’bout den. 

“So I stays ’roun’ de house right cornstant, 
en I keeps erway f’m de doctor’s, en I sutt’nly 
is glad de warn’ no errunts ter run over dat 
erway, ner notes ter be tooken, fer I doan’ see 
how I gwine face dat gal. Sometimes I thinks 
I ’s ready ter go right over dar en ax her ’bout 
hit, but den my sperits fails me en I doan’ do 


Sam’s Courtship. 


nuttin’ ’tall. But I sutt’nly is bodered ’bout 
hit, fer I keers fer dat gal right hones’, en fer 
er fac’. 

“I sees ole Polly de oder day ez I wuz cornin’ 
f’m de pos’ offis’, en she say, ‘You done quit 
cornin’ over our way.’ En I up ’n tells her a 
lie, en says I done got ’ligion, en quit runnin’ 
’roun’. En she say, ’T wuz poor sort er ’ligion 
dat meek me teck ter foolin’ gals.’ But I say, 
‘I ain’ foolin’ no gals,’ en I comes right ’long 
home. I ’s ’feard o’ dat ole woman enny how, 
fer I ’gin ter ’speck she done put some cunjer 
stuff in dat buckwheat en ’lasses, jes’ fer debil- 
ment, fer ef I ain’ cunjured I doan’ know 
w’at’s de marter. Hits been mos’ two weeks 
now, en I ain’ ’joyed myse’f wi’ nuttin’ ’tall. 
Eatin’ doan’ tas’ good, sleepin’ ’s all right, but 
I dreamin’ ’bout dat gal mos’ de time. 

“Marster Jeems, I doan’ know w’at you 
white folks do when gals treat you dat way, 
but Sam’s de mos’ disheartenest boy gwine. I 
’specks I better show you de letter dat boy 
brunged me, en see ef you kin read hit enny 
oder way den dat sto’ boy, fer I mistrus’ dat 
boy foolin’ wi’ me, but I ain’ sho’. Dese gals 
is mons’ ’ceitful, en so is sto’ boys, en I gittin’ 
so now I mos’ ’feard ter trus’ myse’f. 

“Oh, hayar dat note now. I gits hit all 
mash up in my pocket so I thunk it wuz er ole 
rag. Marster Jeems, woan’ you try ter read 


120 


Southland Stories. 


her fer me, en see ef you kin read her etiny 
oder way den de way dat boy reads her. Tell 
me hones’ trufe, fer I ’s mos’ ’stracted, ’deed 
I is.” 

I unfolded the dreadful note and with much 
difficulty decyphered the following: 

“misTer SaM JoHnsOn, 

DeaR Sam, 

I am a Goin’ Ter de Sto’ Dis EaVininG, 
en Will you PleaSe Be ThaR en git Me That 
WriNg, fEr I wanTs eve’Body Ter kNow I ’s 
’Guaged teR be MaRRy. 

Yo’ AilSie. 

P-s. — Ef You AiN’ got de MuNNY Ter git 
HiT, I kin giT trus’ed, ez de KnowS me aT de 
Sto.’ AilSie.” 


THE STORY OF A VIOLET. 



■HE warm sun of an April day was shin- 


ing down on the sloping hank of the 
South lawn. A cloud came and went, and a 
shower fell, and the sun came out again warmly 
and brightly; and as the sun looked over the 
edge of the bright cloud that was sailing away 
into the far East, he said to himself: 

“When I was stepping over the equator last 
fall I saw a violet seed fall on that lawn, down 
there by those trees. I’ve a mind to wake it 
up; it has slept since last September.” 

So the sun poured down his warmest rays on 
the sloping lawn bank, just where the stream 
runs at its foot — poured down his warm rays 
till the frogs in the mud set up a livelier croak- 
ing than they had croaked for half a year — 
poured down his hot rays till the little fishes 
started up and said it’s time to find out where 
all this water comes from. 

The sun shone and shone until the ground 
grew steaming warm and the grass turned some 
shades greener, and the trees stretched out their 
limbs to catch the warmth, and the violet seed 
waked up from its long winter slumber. It was 


122 


Southland Stories. 


only half awake at first, and it wondered what 
was the matter, for it was only a seed, and had 
not even sprouted as yet. So it turned sleepily 
half over and saw the sun shining so brightly 
and cheerily, and heard the frogs croak and the 
fishes splash as they swam up the stream, and 
it knew by the instinct that violets have that 
growing time had come. 

“Time to wake up and grow,” said the sun; 
“time to wake up and spread your leaves,” said 
the shower; “time to wake up and start your 
blossoms,” said the soft South wind. And so 
the violet seed stretched out a little root down- 
ward, and a little stem upward, and as that was 
a good day’s work for it, it slept soundly all 
night. 

But early the next morning it heard the sun’s 
voice calling: “Wake up and grow ! wake up 
and grow !” and so that day it grew two new 
shoots, and started three new roots, and sent 
the oldest shoot clean above the ground. The 
bright light of the warm day shone through 
and through the pale stem, turning it a beau- 
tiful green, and a tiny leaf began to spread 
itself above the short grass. 

It was tired now, and rested, and the sun 
went down, and a cloud came up in the West 
and sprinkled all the grassy lawn. And all 
night long the frogs chattered and the fishes 
splashed, and the stream gurgled; and early the 


Tiie Story of a Violet. 123 

next morning the sun peeped over the cloud’s 
edge to see how things were coming on. 

“So, so, I see you’re stirring; that’s right. 
I’ll give you some of my warmth and light. 
You can have it half the time, and later on I’ll 
give you more still.” 

And that day the violet grew three more 
roots, and started two new leaves, and most 
wonderful and delightful of all, a tiny blue hud 
started right out of its heart and reached its 
head up toward the sky. And the sun went 
down and the dew fell, and the frogs chattered, 
and the fishes splashed and swam farther up the 
stream, and the violet slept. 

Early the next morning the sun was up in 
the East, and no clouds to hide his face. And 
he looked down on the sloping, grassy lawn, and 
saw the violet still asleep, for it was tired out 
with its long day’s work. Higher and higher 
climbed the sun over the tree tops, and the lit- 
tle violet bud opened its blue petals and looked 
as fresh and fragrant and clean as the newest 
made violet could possibly look when sprinkled 
with the purest of morning dew. And the sun 
went behind a little cloud that had gold edges 
and a silver fringe, and the violet raised its 
head high above the grass and looked around 
for the sun, and wondered where he had gone. 

And just then the little cloud with the gold 
edges and silver fringe slipped away from the 


124 


Southland Stories. 


sun’s face, and the most dazzling of his rays 
shone right into the violet’s eyes. And she 
winked and blinked, and at last hung her head 
away down on her bosom; and oh ! dear, she 
strained her neck so in bending it down that 
from that day to this all the violets of her 
family have crooked necks, and are trying to 
hide their faces in their leaves. 


CPIRISTMAS EYE. 


/\ STORY of Jack and Nan, with ’Liza and 
Flo’ — only these four, and what they 
found, is to be told. Jack was seven and Nan, 
being Jack’s twin sister, was obliged to be the 
same age as Jack himself. ’Liza was the big, 
fat, black nurse and Flo’ was a great St. Ber- 
nard dog, the companion and play-mate of the 
twins. And all these lived together in the great 
house, or wandered and played about the fields, 
children of nature, and happy all the day. Jack 
insisted that he was the elder of the two, pos- 
sibly claiming this as he was a boy and foremost 
in all play and mischief too. Both were the 
special pets of ’Liza and Flo’, and of the mother 
and father of the twins, and the only children 
in the house, they being seven years old. ’Liza 
was very fat and very black; Flo’ was big and 
serious-looking, and both these seemed to think 
the care of the twins their elected duty. 
Whether they, the twins, loved ’Liza or Flo’ 
most it was hard to say, but all together they 
were a happy set, living in the great big old 
Virginia house. 

Such an old house to be sure ! with great wide 


126 


Southland Stories. 


halls, big enough to drive a load of hay through, 
and all sorts of queer rooms up and down and 
on every side with doors in the most unexpected 
places, and the most wonderful cuddy-holes for 
hiding; and on the South side, where the warm 
winter’s sun shone in, Jack and Nan slept, 
’Liza near by, with Flo’ curled up in a den just 
outside. 

What children of nature to be sure ! I have 
not a doubt but they believed every word ’Liza 
told them; and she related the most wonderful 
stones of ghosts and hobgoblins, of fairies and 
“sperrits,” they listening awe-struck, not dar- 
ing to look behind them for fear, yet would not 
have ’Liza stop the telling for the world. Flo’ 
looked on very grave and wise indeed, wagging 
her tail in approval, and understanding it all, 
so Jack insisted, only she lacked words to ex- 
press the same. 

A very happy four indeed, with papa and 
mamma overlooking all, and sometimes telling 
Christmas stories too, for it was Christmas 
Eve at dark. Yes, dark had come. Jack and 
Nan had romped and played on the lawn, down 
by the spring, and both had had supper and 
were resolutely fighting the “Sand Man,” who 
was weighing down their eyelids, they mean- 
time protesting that they were not sleepy, no, 
not a bit; and ’Liza told again her Christmas 
story, the most wonderful of them all, a story 


Christmas Eve. 


127 


told by her at least once a month ever since the 
twins could recollect, but which still had to 
them all the freshness of the “first time.” 

It was such a warm Christmas too, for 
although there was a fire on the hearth, the 
windows were open, and the soft South wind 
came in almost like a spring day. Down by 
the marsh the frogs were croaking and even 
some of the birds that went away Southward 
in the fall still remained and were chirping in 
the bushes. The only light in the room came 
from the fire in the open fireplace, and ’Liza 
told again her wonderful Christmas story, just 
as she was told it by her mammy, a long time 
ago. 

A story of how just at midnight on Christmas 
Eve the roosters began to crow: 

“Good cheer to you-o-o!” and away across 
on the next plantation the roosters would 
answer back: “A Christmas Mawnin-n-n.” 
Meanwhile the oxen in their stalls fell on their 
knees in thankful worship, and even the birds 
asleep in the trees waked up and twittered and 
sang and chirped rejoicingly. 

All of which ’Liza told as solemnly as a ser- 
mon, and “deeded” to the truth of every word; 
telling it in half whispers, not as something she 
had herself seen and heard, but as fold her by 
her old mammy long, long ago. 

Told it further thus: 


128 


Southland Stories. 


That just at midnight on Christmas Eve, if 
one went to the top of the hill by the big road 
and listened he might hear the wailing cry of a 
baby, newly born, whether on the earth or up 
in the sky no one could tell — a strange, un- 
earthly cry — a baby cry. But only people 
could hear it who had led lives as pure and 
innocent as a baby. She, ’Liza, had gone up 
and listened, but she s’posed she was too wicked 
to hear it; but her mammy told her it could 
certainly be heard, just at midnight. 

Now comes the mother with a lamp, and 
Jack and Nan go to bed, with “Now I lay me 
down to sleep,” said in a droning tone. But 
somehow they could not sleep. The mother 
was filling stockings by the fireplace in the din- 
ing room, the father was reading, Flo’ was 
snoring — “just like a man” Jack said she 
snored — ’Liza snoring in her room adjoining 
the nursery. Jack and Nan talked in half- 
whispers. 

“You b’l’eve that story o’ ’Liza’s ’bout the 
cryin’ baby, Nan?” 

“Co’se. They’s lots o’ things we aint nuver 
foun’ out. She said her mammy tole ’er, ’n 
what she tell it fer ef ’twarnt so?” 

“S’pose we go see, Nan,” said Jack. 

“Aint you ’feared?” replied Nan. 

“’Feared, no ! you aint ’feared of er baby, 
is you ?” 


Christmas Eve. 


129 


“No, but it’s dark, Jack.” 

“Dark ! why the stars is jes’ blazin’ : should ’n 
wonder ef one was the Star o’ Bethlehem. 
Le’s go.” 

Shyly Nan crept out of bed. Jack pushed 
up the long sash and looked out. “It’s warm 
as summer; we can go just so.” “Just so,” 
meaning barefoot and in night-dresses, but 
these children of the South were used to bare- 
feet, and cried when they had to put on shoes. 

Flo’ waked up and sniffed the air coming 
from the window, roused herself, yawned, went 
to the window and followed. She was saying 
to herself: “They are doing very bad, these 
twins, going out in the night. I must go with 
them.” 

Hand in hand up the path to the top of the 
hill ran the twins, Flo’ gravely following. 

“There’s the gate, Nan,” cried Jack. 

“There’s the big road, brudder,” replied Nan. 

How brightly the stars shone. They sparkled 
and danced, so Nan thought, and she said that 
the glass in the windows had just been washed 
clean; and one bright star slipped out of its 
place and went sailing away, away, down, 
down, down, leaving a bright track — “O-o,” 
cried Nan, “it’s prettier than fireworks.” 

“Now, Jack, it’s time ter liss’n.” I think 
she was growing nervous, and ready to hear 
the veritable “Gloria in Excelsis.” 


130 


Southland Stories. 


“I ’clare I did hear sumfin’ — didn’t yotf, 
brudder ?” 

Jack was nervous too. Only these two, alone 
in the middle of the night, only these two, with 
Flo’. 

“What you hear, Nan?” 

“It sounded sumfin’ like a real baby.” 

“Sho’ ’nuff?” 

“Sho’ ’nuff, Jack.” 

“Let’s run home, Jack.” 

“No, maybe it’s not right to run just now.” 

Flo’ pricked her ears and listened, as if she 
too heard something, and made a little sound 
in her throat, half bark, half growl. 

“What is it, Flo’ ?” 

Flo’ walked to the fence-corner, growled, 
whined, seemed puzzled: “It aint a ’possum,” 
she said to herself. She walked back to the 
twins, and back again to the fence-corner, smelt 
at something there which she saw but which 
Jack and Nan could not, and then gave a little 
joyful bark. 

“Let’s go and see, Nan,” said Jack. 

“I’m ’feared,” replied Nan. 

“I’m not,” said Jack, although his voice did 
not sound very brave. Flo’ was snuffing at a 
bundle lying in the fence-corner. The bundle 
cried, a baby’s wailing cry. 

Jack walked boldly up, Nan following falter- 
ingly. 


Christmas Eve. 


131 

Wonder of wonders to them ! “A baby, a 
real meat baby,” shouted Nan, and the baby 
lifted up its voice and wept as only wailing, 
helpless infancy can. 

“Oh, Jack, it’s a little Jesus, a real live Jesus, 
come to us on a Christmus mawnin’.” 

Jack looked around for Flo’, but she was 
gone. And now all over the dark house lights 
gleamed and voices called for the children, and 
Flo’ trotted in while ’Liza was loudly lamenting 
the loss of her charge. 

For the father and mother had gone to look 
at the children asleep, as they supposed, and 
to hang up the stockings, and the nest was 
empty ! 

Flo’ pulled at the mother’s dress. 

“She knows something,” said the father — 
“What is it, Flo’ ?” 

Flo’ pulled, walked to the door, came back, 
pulled again at the dress, whined and looked 
at the open door. 

“Let us follow her,” said the father, and the 
sound of rapid feet was heard over the path 
leading up the hill, Flo’ leading, joyfully bark- 
ing. 

No mother or father ever before saw such a 
sight on a Christmas Eve. It quite exceeded 
’Liza’s mother’s fancy. Nan was holding the 
baby, the baby was crying, Jack looking very 
superior and “touchous” about handling it, 


132 


Southland Stories. 


while Nan was jumping up and down, barefoot, 
and in her night-gown, shouting: 

“It’s a little Jesus; we found it in the fence- 
cornder, me ’n Flo’ ’n Jack — a real live Jesus, 
aint you glad ’Liza?” 

Whose baby it was no one of the family ever 
knew. Whether some heartless mother had 
abandoned it, or some dead mother’s friends 
had put it by the road- side, hoping and praying 
for a home and friends for it — neither the father 
nor mother of the twins ever knew, or these in- 
fants themselves; no, not even ’Liza or Flo’, 
although the latter looked very wise about it, 
as if she could tell much if she would; and 
’Liza made many guesses which she told over 
and over until she came to believe them, in 
part at least. 

So it was. There was a new baby in the 
house, a wonderful baby with big blue eyes 
and golden hair, all the more wonderful for its 
strange coming. And the father and mother 
of the twins found it, I verily believe, as great 
a joy to them as if it were their own flesh and 
blood. 

And it lived and grew and became a strong 
man. And do I know him ? 

No, no, I only dreamed him out as I sat here 
by the fire. 


DE PROFUNDIS. 


TT was, indeed, out of the depths that we 
came, and this mainly by the help of our 
dear friends, who were our slaves, but none the 
less friends, sticking close in adversity. And 
mine is but a prologue, for I only wish to say 
that I am trying to tell, in as exact language 
as I can, the story of Peggy and of Dan. I 

enlisted early in the spring of 1861 in the tli 

Virginia regiment, was elected captain of my 
company, participated in the battles of Manas- 
sas, and also in what is known as the “seven 
day’s fights’’ about Richmond, was captured 
very soon after, taken to Johnson’s Island, ex- 
changed and returned to Virginia in the latter 
part of the year 1862. 

I left my dear wife almost at the church-door, 
we having been married in the spring of 1861, 
and although I had a week or two leave of 
absence, we had but a brief honeymoon, as the 
regiment was ordered to the front and I saw 
nothing of my bride, after our marriage, except 
a short stolen visit or two, until I returned from 
the North as an exchanged prisoner. While in 
prison I had a few lines from a cousin of hers 
residing in the city of Baltimore, giving news 
she had received from my people, and this was 


134 


Southland Stories. 


the only tidings I had from home during my 
absence. 

I shall not attempt to tell of my sufferings of 
body and of mind, while away from my dear 
wife, or of the desperation with which I strug- 
gled not to give up hope, situated as I was 
absolutely without comfort of soul, unless, in- 
deed, the dull hope which never utterly for- 
sakes a sane man, and which even the shadow 
of death can hardly completely stamp out. 

I came back badly shattered in body, hut 
needing mostly the blessed nursing I was sure 
to receive at home. And now I leave the rest 
of the story, painful enough in some respects, 
to the telling of the faithful couple but for 
whose tender care the one light that shone for 
me would have gone out in darkness. 

I have tried to put down the words of Peggy 
and Dan as exactly as possible, but realize that 
it is impossible to put in words alone the story 
of the sacrifices they made for my dear ones, 
and the devotion they displayed; and I can 
only pray God that they may never lack for 
friends as faithful and true as they proved to 
me and mine in our hour of extremity. I know 
that so long as my wife and myself live and 
can help them they will never want. 

Peggy’s Story. 

“Settin’ hayar, honey, settin’ hayar, lookin’ 


De Profundis. 


135 


at you ez you be playin’ in de shade, wi’ yo’ 
cotton-haid hayar en yo’ blue eyes, hit seems 
ter me I kin shet my eyes en go back ter de 
days w’en yo’ ma wuz er leetle thing like you, 
playin’ ’roun’ on de lawn wi’ yo’ pa. He wuz 
er boy ’bout Dan’s size — mout be er leetle big- 
ger, en he wuz in all de mischievment de wuz 
gwine on — yo’ pa. He wuz yo’ ma’s cousin, 
’bout third er fo’th, en wuz dark complected, 
wi’ dark eyes. Yo’ ma wuz borned en raise’ 
on dis place whar we livin’ now. O’ co’se de 
ole place whar yo’ pa wuz borned, en you too, 
wuz bu’nt down by de so’gers en dat Henshaw 
man, endurin’ o’ de wah. En now I tellin’ you 
’bout yo’ pa, en w’at he like, jes’ like you ain’ 
nuver seed ’im, en you settin’ on he lap dis ve’y 
mawnin’. He uster come over hayar ter de 
ole place ter go ter school ter ole Mr. Montague 
— he ke’p de school — en yo’ pa wuz in all de 
mischief de wuz gwine on, de leader in hit all. 
He so sprightly en strong he boun’ ter be at de 
haid — haid o’ all: studyin’ en playen all. But 
he warn’ mean do; nor, suh, he nuver ’pose on 
chill’ ns ner gals, en I ’member onct he gin er 
big boy er awful whalin’ ’kase he teck er apple 
erway f ’m leetle Jimmy Bledsoe, en po’ leetle 
Jim he crippled at dat 1 En I know dat boy — 
yo’ pa I means — teck dat Bledsoe boy en cayar 
’im all de way home on he back w’en de fergit 
ter fetch de hoss fer ’im ter teck ’im home. De 


Southland Stories. 


136 

warn’ nolle er dem free schools den, en ed de 
had been none o’ dese chill’ ns would er been 
’lowed ter go ter mix up wi’ dem common po’ 
white peoples w’at sont de brats dar. 

“Yo’ ma wuz jes’ like er bird — yaas, er blue- 
bird, wi’ her singin’ voice, en you could hayer 
her all over de plantation ’mos’, sometimes up 
in de cherry-tree, sometimes on de haystack, 
down by de run, wadin’ bar’ foot in de shaller 
places, but always de same bright, laughin’, 
free chile, wi’ nuttin’ but gladness en sunshine 
fer all. Seemed like dat chile could ’11 have 
trouble, but de good Lawd, he sont hit all de 
same, plenty o’ hit, ’fo’ she got th’ugh. But 
she corned out’n hit like de Hebrew chill’ns 
out’n de fier, mo’ like er angel den ever. She 
woan’ let me say dat ter her face, fer she say 
she only er po’, sinful mortal, w’at tryin’ ter 
do her duty in de state she called ter, but now 
she erway I boun’ tell you ’bout her. 

“W’en she wuz sixteen I wuz er year older, 
en she ’gun ter put up her hayar — it gittin’ 
darker den, en fall down mos' ter her foots, en 
she put on long dresses, en her eyes gittin’ 
deeper en deeper, like de at de bottom o’ de 
well, en her face like de sunshine mo’n ever — 
Lawd, mun ! she wuz er picter. 

‘‘Now, chile, doan’ you git proud ’kase I ’s 
sayin’ you like yo’ ma — co’se you is, but you 
mus’ ’n persume on dat. De good Lawd, he 


De Profundis. 


137 


kin give en he kin teck ’way, so den you inns’ 
’n think too much o’ yo’se’f, ’kase you like yo’ 
ma. En den chile, I doan’ know hut w’at you 
like yo’ daddy too; en ef you like bofe o’ ’em 
you boun’ ter be good en purty too. 

‘ ‘How I is ramblin’ ter be sho’ ! I wuz gwine 
tell ’bout yo’ pa en yo’ ma en ’bout de weddin’, 
en w’en I gits ter talkin’ ’bout de ole times I 
fergits whar I is er w’at I doin’ mos’. De ole 
days w’en yo’ ma would run bar-foot, ’kase de 
boys do so, en how she sot her foot on er locus’ 
thorn en yo’ pa picks her up en cayars her in de 
house — en doan’ you know, w’en yo’ ma — no, 
’t wuz yo’ gran’ m a — start ter pick hit out, she 
cry en say, ‘Johnny Temple, he pick hit out,’ 
en yo’ gran’ma larfs en say: ‘So dat’s de way 
you ’gins de marter, en who knows how you 
een it.’ John, he big, clumsy boy, he picks hit 
out, but he han’ shake, en yo’ ma say, ‘Oh, 
you awkward !’ 

“De run out en play onder de trees, en he git 
stung wi’ er hornet, en hit sutt’nly do liu’t, en 
yo’ ma say she hayar o’ er man w’at got shot 
wi’ er pizen bow ’n arrer, en he wife er he 
sweetheart, she suck de place en git all de pizen 
out, en woan’ he let her suck he han’ en git 
out de pizen ? But he say no, hit mout pizen 
her, en den w’at he gwine do fer er wife w’en 
de grow up ? Dat de way de cayar on, en de 
mrn’ me o’ one o’ dem leetle whurwin’s dat 


Southland Stories. 


138 

come ’long down de road, stirrin’ up de dus’, 
en bimeby er big one come en twis’ off de 
tree-tops en teck off de roof o’ de house. 

“But w’en he sayin’ dat ’bout she bein’ he 
wife one o’ dem days she say she ain’ gwine 
marry nobody — she gwine tu’n Catlierlic en be 
er sister, like her arnt Sue. But he arnswer her 
back dat dem blue eyes warn’ made ter be shet 
up in er convent— de made ter light some man’s 
life: en how she gwine change her ’ligion, en 
she er ’ Piskerpalian ? So de j aw at one ’ nudder 
erwhile like de sort o’ quoilin’, en den meek up. 

“De wuz plenty er gentermuns come ’roun’ 
in dem days — dat is, arfter yo’ ma she grow up, 
do she warn’ mo’n sixteen w’en de ’gin ter 
come; no, not mo’n fifteen er risin’ er dat. 
Some o’ ’em say de come huntin’ foxes, but I 
think de huntin’ yo’ ma, fer de stick mighty 
dost ter her anyway. Lawd, but ’t wuz er 
sight ter see ’em waitin’ on her, she lookin’ 
kinder like she doan’ keer, only she ’bleeged 
ter be nice ter ’em all. Yo’ gran’ma, she wuz 
de lady o’ de house, en er gran’ one she made 
too. ’T wuz er sight ter see her cornin’ inter 
de dinin’ room, holin’ yo’ gran’ pa’s arm, en 
lookin’ ez smilin’ ez er spring mawnin’. ’Tain’ 
no use, honey, but de wuz gran’ peoples in dem 
days — peoples w’at knowed de place, en had de 
place ter know. I kin see yo’ gran’ pa now, 
out ter de cayarge, he’ pin’ de ladies out— he 


De Profundis. 


139 


wi’ he gran’ manners en all. Ah ! de ole times 
done gone, en de ole peoples, en hit seems now 
like de warn’ much diff’unce ’tween de middle 
peoples en de quality. De thinks ’kase de got 
some money en lan’ dat mecks ’em ’spectable, 
but Lawd, honey, hit tecks de rale blood — en 
yo’ ma — dat is, yo’ gran’ma, de had de blood 
sho’, en all de kinfo’ks too. W’en you ever 
hayar o’ er Temple doin’ anythin’ mean, er 
gwine ter de dawgs — ’sep’n dat ornery man, 
Bill Henshaw — he er sort o’ cousin, but Lawd, 
chile, ef ever dat man had any o’ de Temple 
blood in ’im he mus’ er cut hisse’f wi’ er knife 
en let hit out, he so mean. 

“Yaas, de come ’roun’, lots er gentermuns, 
f ’m fer en near, en de all co’tin’ yo’ ma. But 
yo’ pa he had de start en he kep’ hit too. ’Kase 
’t wuz ’pinted sho’, en den he wuz de bes’ man 
o’ de whole set. En ef de wuz one de wuz 
twenty. De wuz cornin’ all de time, en de pes- 
ter de po’ chile so she ain’ had time mos’ ter 
eat. But she look like she ain’ keerin’ fer none 
o’ ’em, only she boun’ ter let yo’ pa have de 
mos’ o’ her, fer she doan’ jes’ know how ter 
meek b’l’eve like some er dem gals dat fools 
mens so. I see one o’ de gentermuns git her 
off in de cornder whisperin’ ter her, en she 
look sort o’ shy en den larf er bit, en cut her 
eye at ’im, en den de fus’ thing you know she 
run en put her arm ’roun’ her ma’s naick en 


140 


Southland Stories. 


look like she mos 1 cry, en w’en de miss’s ax 
her w’at de marter she say she doan’ wan’ no 
beau, ’sep’n de teck long time ter do de waitin’, 
en she ain’ sho’ she wan’ any — en den she sort 
er whisper ter her ma in her year, she wait tell 
de right man comes ’long en den she’ll think 
’bout hit. En she, po’ chile, she doan’ know 
hit, but de right man all de time waitin’ at de 
nex’ tu’n o’ de road. 

“She wuz leetle bit er thing den, jes’ like 
she is now, only she mo’ fleshy now o’ co’se, 
but den she slim ez er wilier switch, but de 
harnsomes’ eyes — why de look sof’ en pleadin’ 
like de wil’ bird w’en you kotch hit in yo’ han’, 
en w’en she look sideways at you, you mos’ 
think dem eyes talkin’ — yaas, I do think she 
could meek ’em speak, en I know yo’ pa onder- 
stan’ w’at de say, same ez she say hit out loud; 
but she could larf wi’ ’em too. 

“(Tu’n yo’ haid ’roun’ honey, en lef ole Peggy 
see ef you kin larf out’n yo ’ eyes. Yaas, de 
same ez yo’ ma, only de ain’ quite so sof’. Now 
doan’ you git sot up, fer de good Lawd, he gin 
you w’at you got, en he kin teck hit all erway, 
jes’ like he did fer Miss Jane Sale, w’at had de 
smallpox, en all her beauty done clean gone. ) 
She larfs wi’ dem eyes, yo’ ma, en she could 
tanterlize de mens wi’ ’em too, w’en she teck 
de notion — tanterlize ’em so de look at one 
’nudder like de wonder w’at she do mean. But 


De Proeundis. 


141 

dat’s de way wi’ de wimmens; de Lawd, he 
meek ’em so, en hit’s de ’tection I ’specks. 

“Ole Gunnel Harrison, he corned ’roun’, too, 
co’tin’. He wuz er widderer wi’ th’ee er fo’ 
sons, some o’ ’em growed up, but de cunnel he 
meek b’l’eve he rale young, en he comb he 
hayar over de bald place on de top o’ he haid, 
en he mighty perlite en gracious ter we-alls; en 
he teck off he hat en bow in gran’ style. But 
one day I see yo’ ma she sot on havin’ some 
fun en she say ter de cunnel woan’ he please 
thread her needle fer her. He say, ‘Sutt’nly, 
Miss,’ en he teck de thread en he poke en poke 
at de needle-eye — he shame ter feck he specks, 
he ’ten’ he so young — den he teck de needle ter 
de winder en hole it up ter de light en den he 
git rale mad en say, ‘You got no business ter 
do dat way, Miss — dat needle got de eye broke 
off.’ En you min’ she cut her eye at me en 
say, jes’ ez quiet ez you please: ‘You mus’ 
’scuse me, cunnel, but mebbe I did ’n look at 
hit.’ But she ain’ lookin’ at ’im w’en she say 
dat — she lookin’ at de een o’ her leetle finger 
en talkin’ ter dat. Oh, she could worry ’em 
plenty w’en she got ready, but she nuver worry 
yo’ pa, she love ’im too much fer dat. 

‘ ‘Sho’, yo’ pa wuz de man. De oders de come 
en de go, fus’ one en den ’nudder, den er whole 
passel o’ ’em tergerer, coinin’ en gwine en 
bangin’ ’roun’, en dat Mr. Bill Henshaw he 


142 


Southland Stories. 


come mo’n de oders, ’sep’n yo’ pa, ’kase he 
could ride ’cross de fiel’ any time, de planta- 
tions so nigh. Somehow yo’ pa he ’pear’d ter 
knowjes’ w’en ter walk, fer hit of’en happen 
he meet yo’ ma down by de run whar de bridge 
uster be. Hit done wash erway now — en de 
bofe walk like ’twuz er ’pintment de had, one 
o’ dem de in er hurry ter keep en slow ter quit, 
en w’at de say I doan’ know, but de look mighty 
satisfied cornin’ ’long up de lane, walkin’ like 
de sho’ o’ dese’ves, en ain’ keerin’ ef de doan’ 
git home in time fer supper. 

“But de trouble wuz cornin’. De Lawd, he 
’pinted hit, en hit had ter come. One day — 
’t wuz t’ wuds evenin’, en de wuz er cloud risin’, 
en yo’ gran’ma say ter me: ‘Run, Peggy, wi’ 
de umbreller, en meet Miss Sophie, it looks like 
er shower.’ O’ co’se I know de way she gone — 
she always go down by de bridge — en dat man 
Henshaw he knowed it too, en dat wuz de 
’ginnin’ o’ de misery. Jes’ why yo’ pa wuz 
late dat day I doan’ know, ’sep’ ’t wuz ’pinted 
by de Lawd, but he warn’ dar, en dat man Hen- 
shaw wuz. I ’specks he’d been drinkin’ — I 
doan’ think he’d dar ter go on dater way ’dout 
he drunk, leastways in liquor, he mus ’ be 
sho’, er he would nuver do like he done dat 
evenin’. 

“Miss Sophie, yo’ ma — she wuz dar on de seat 
yo’ pa made fer her, lookin’ down in de run, 


De Profundis. 


i43 


watchin’ de minners swimmin’ ’roun’ en sing- 
in’ sorf ter herse’f, en w’en she hayar er step 
she think hit mout be yo’ pa, en w’en she look 
dar stan’ dat man Henshaw. You know honey, 
she jes’ natchelly hate dat man, but o’ co’se she 
treat ’im like er lady ought ter — she always 
keep de bes’ manners fer all erlike — so she say, 
‘Good evenin’.’ He say, ‘You lookin’ fer sum- 
fin’ ?’ She sort o’ larf en say ’t wuz mos’ time 
fer de flowers ter be bloomin’. She jes’ say dat 
fer ter be sayin’ sumfin’. But he say he know 
w’at she lookin’ fer — but dat man ain’ hayar 
en he is, en now he gwine say he say. She 
look ’roun’ like she skeered, but he say, ‘Oh, 
you need ’n look, he ain’ hayar en he ain’ 
cornin’, en now I got you whar I want you I 
gwine say w’at I please.’ Den he went on tell- 
in’ her how he love her en he gwine meek her 
marry ’im, en — well, he jes’ went on scandel- 
ous, ’kase he jes’ drunk ’nuff not ter keer; en 
she look like she faint, she so skeered. En dat 
bad man he grab her ’roun’ de wais’ en gwine 
on dat way — ’t wuz tumble, en I wuz meckin’ 
up my mine ter hit ’im wi’ dat umbreller w’en 
I hayar er swif ’ step. She hayar hit too, en 
scream out, ‘John ! John !’ En dar de wuz ! 

“Mr. Henshaw he done drapt her on de grars, 
en dar she laid like she daid ’mos’ en he bris’lr 
up like one o’ dem dawgs you see dat’s ’feard 
ter fight, but jes’ growls, en he say, ‘Well !’ 


i 4 4 


Southland Stories. 


Yo’ pa he say two er th’ee cuss- wilds, en den I 
see him teck dat Henshaw man en pitch ’im 
right down over de bridge inter de run, en he 
walk off wi’out lookin’ behin’ ’im ter see 
whedder he drown ded er no. I see ’im crawl 
out'n de water en shake he fis’ at yo’ pa, en he 
say: ‘Hit’s yo’ time now: mine’ll come some 
day.’ En den he sneak off like er whipt houn’ 
dawg. 

“Yo’ pa pick up yo’ ma f ’m de groun’ whar 
dat man drap her, en teck her in he arms — he 
so strong en she so light she warn’ mo’n er 
bun’le er fodder ter ’im, en tote her ’long 
’twuds de house, en presen’ ly she ’gun ter come 
to, en she sort o’ cry sorf like, but she layin’ 
dar lookin’ mighty contented in he arms, en I 
hayar ’im say he gwine be her ’teeter tell def ’ 
do ’em part. En you know, mun, she ain’ 
sayin’ no, not wunct. But arfter erwhile she 
say he mus’ put her down, fer somebody mout 
be cornin’ en den she’d be so ’shame, but he — 
well, he doan’ look like he ’shame now ner 
ain’ gwine ter nudder. But he put her down 
on de groun’ en she hafter hoi’ on ter ’im — 
he say he ’feard she fall, so he put he arm ’roun’ 
her wais’, en I teck notice she ain’ henderin’ 
’im. 

“Mr. Henshaw, he go off ter de cote en say 
he gwine have yo’ pa ’rested fer ’saultin’ o’ 
’im, but he warn’ gwine do nuttin’ ’tall, en 


De Profundis. 


i45 


w’en he git sober en gits well o’ de cole he cotch 
f ’m de sousin’ in de run he went clean out’n 
de county ’n did ’n nobody see ’im fer er long 
time. 

“Den de wah corned. Yo’ pa wuz de cap’n, 
you know he ’bleeged ter git dat, ef no mo’, en 
he sutt’nly did look gran’ ridin’ he hoss at de 
haid o’ de comp’ny; en de wuz drillin’ en 
marchin’ en gre’t doin’ s. Den de say de gwine 
off ter fight de Yankees. 

“So de mus’ have de weddin’. Yo’ gran’ma 
she say de ought ter have er big weddin’ like 
’twuz w’en she wuz married, but yo’ gran’pa 
say, no, de bes’ wuz de simples’, dat de coun- 
try need all de men en all de money en all de 
wimmens too, fer ’t wuz er life en death fight, 
en he knowed hit. Some o’ de gentermuns de 
say de warn’ gwine ter be no fightin’ — de Yan- 
kees run soon ez de see de cavaltry, but he say 
no, de’d be blood en fier ’fo’ de done wi’ wah; 
en he wuz right too — fer we see de fier right 
hayar, en de blood too, en sech tribulations ez 
I prays de good Lawd not ter sen’ no mo’ on 
we-alls. 

“So de had de weddin’, jes’ quiet like, wi’ no 
fine dresses en no gre’t doin’s, en yo’ pa say he 
mus’ go right off — de comp’ny done gone — en 
I do b’l’eve he thought hit wuz he duty ter ride 
right off en leave yo’ ma at de chutch do.’ But 
de cunnel say de Bible ’low er man wi’ er new 


146 


Southland Stories. 


wife er whole year, en he thinks yo’ pa mus’ 
stay er leetle while ter comfort he bride. So 
he stays er week er so. 

“(Stan’ dar, honey, in de sunshine, en lef 
me see how you look. I ’s thinkin’ how yo’ 
ma look w’en yo’ pa ride off dat mawnin’, en 
she lookin’ down de road — lookin’ like dat po’ 
bird w’en de hawk ketch hits mate. But he 
wuz er man wuth lookin’ arfter, chile, yo’ pa 
wuz den, en he is now. De ain’ none sech — de 
Temples is fine peoples — but yo’ pa — de do say 
w’en he wuz made de broke de mould so de 
could ’n have no mo’ sech. Maybe dat’s why 
you wuz er gal, honey. No, I ain’ seed no mo’ 
sech, ’sep’n yo’ gran’ pa. De’s dyin’ out, de 
ole peoples, en de ain’ no mo’ ter teck de place, 
en I ain’ sho de’s er place fer ’em.) 

“Dat Henshaw man he corned back en he say 
he gwine in de ahmy too, en he jines er comp’ ny, 
but de say he so skeered dat de had ter gin ’im 
er place whar de gins out de feed ter de hosses 
— he ’feard ter go ter de front. En one dark 
night w’at you s’ pose he done ? He ride off en 
jine de Yankees. ’T wuz jes’ like dat man, he 
so mean. En de did ’n nobody sot eyes on ’im 
tell de winter arfter. Den he come back, en de 
tribulations corned fer sho’. 

“But ’fo’ dis cornin’ back yo’ pa he comes en 
goes onct er twict en hit sutt’nly wuz er com- 
fort ter see ’im ef ’t wuz only fer er day, en he 


De Profundis. 


147 


so bright en cheerful ter yo’ ma en de res’. En 
he lef’ yo’ ma lookin’ like one er dem warm 
days in de early spring, so sunshiny en glad 
ter see ’im. He say de mout have er big fight 
en he mout be in it, er he mout be scoutin’ 
’roun’— sometimes de sont de comp’ny off on 
dat sort o’ wuck — but he come back all right o’ 
co’se, en den he mout be de cunnel, ’kase he 
say de gwine meek de cunnel er gen’l. He tells 
lots er things ’bout de ahmy en de quar things 
de Yankees do. He say de could ’n talk to ’em 
w’en de teck ’em pris’ners, ’kase de doan’ orn- 
’erstan’ our speech. So he tells he wife good- 
bye, en kiss her so many times I think he gits 
ti’ed, en tells her she mus’ keep her sperrits up, 
’kase he see she love ’im so, do w’at fer he 
doan’ know. Den he ride off. 

“Dis wuz in de summer, en de warn’ no Yan- 
kees ’roun’ so fur’s we hearn tell, en ev’ythin’ 
wuz so peaceful en quiet, dat is, so we thought. 
But w’at you think ? De wuz Yankees ’roun’, 
yaas, en wus’ den Yankees — right down by de 
bridge — fer dat Henshaw man wuz wi’ ’em en 
he sot er trap fer yo’ pa, en teck ’im pris’ner, 
en he jes’ lef’ he wife ! ’T wuz ole crazy Car’- 
line, she corned runnin’ up ter de house, tellin’ 
de news, but she so crazy did ’n nobody lis’n 
ter her; but ’twuz so. De come en tell de 
miss’s, en den o’ co’se yo’ ma boun’ ter hayar; 
en mun, ’twuz pitiful ter see her. Dat po’ 


148 


Southland Stories. 


lamb, weepin’ en wailin’ all on ’count o’ dat 
houn’ dawg Henshaw. ’Twuz er pity yo’ pa 
had ’n drownded him clean out en out dat day 
in de run. But so ’t wuz, en de say de cayar yo’ 
pa off jes’ he wuz like er runaway nigger, wi’ 
he han’s tied ’hine ’im, en dat lowlike thief, 
Henshaw, settin’ on de hoss, grinnin’ at ’im, 
en ’twuz yo’ pa’s hoss, too. 

“Dat wuz de ’ginnin’ o’ de tribulations, en 
de wuz mo’ cornin’, fer w’en de Lawd sont 
troubles on de chill’ns o’ Israel he sont plenty 
o’ ’em so de won’ fergit hit. But our troubles 
warn’ sont fer dat, fer you know, honey, yo’ 
ma she did ’n need no troubles ter pieck her 
good — not she. But de troubles corned — hit 
mout er been de debb’l sont ’em, en he en dat 
man Henshaw pardners I ’specks. 

“She wuz mighty low down, w’at wi’ her 
troubles en teckin’ her husban’ pris’ner like 
dat, en mo’ things besides. She say dat she 
do think ef he had been teckin so in er fight 
she mout ’n min’ hit so. But ter set er trap 
fer ’im like he er varmint ! hit hu’ted her so ! 

“So de days come en go, en de winter cornin’. 
De miss’s git wud f ’m yo’ pa dat he well — de 
letter corned all de way ’roun’ by Baltimo’ so 
she say, whar she had er cousin w’at writ ter 
’im en de git de news dat way — ’t wuz er scout 
passin’ dat fotch hit. En he say he hopes ter 
git de exchangement soon. En den de wuz mo’ 


De Profundis. 


i49 


troubles. Yo’ ma she ain’ lookin’ so ve’y well 
en yo’ gran’ 111a tryin’ ter comfort her, en tell her 
all ’bout Gen’l Lee, how he done druv de Yan- 
kees back; but she ain’ cheerful like she uster 
be, en she say she have bad dreams. But her 
gran’ma tells her she mus’ ’n think ’bout dat — 
dat peoples in her fix de apt ter have dreams, 
en she mus’ cheer up en be brave. But she 
say how she gwine do dat wi’ her po’ man ’way 
yander in de prison, en she doan’ know but 
w’at he mout be sick er daid, en nobody ter 
wait on ’im. No wonder de po’ chile so low 
down, en she in dat fix too ! 

“I wuz puttin’ her to baid one night — you 
know I treats her jes’ like she wuz er baby — 
but she say she cayarnt sleep. She res’ less en 
tumble all ’bout on de baid, en den she calls me 
en say: ‘Peggy, does you love Dan?’ (You 
know, honey, dat me ’n Dan gits married ’bout 
de same time ez yo’ ma, but he mos’ torment 
de life out’n me, he so orndiffuent en triflin’. 
But he sticks by we-alls ter de las’, en dat wuz 
de ’deemin’ o’ ’im I ’specks). So I tells her I 
doan’ know so much ’bout dat. Dan’s mon’s 
triflin’ en wuthless, but I s’ pose I hafter put up 
wi* ’im. Den she say she do love her husban’ 
so ! Oh, ef she could teck his place en suffer 
his sufferin’s en bayar w’at he bayar ! Yaas, 
teck his place even if ’t wuz in de grave, so he 
’scape. ’T wuz beautiful ter hayar her ez she 


Southland Stories. 


150 

talk ’bout her love she do have fer ’im, en she 
say w’en she lay down at night en shet her eyes 
she see ’im ’way off yander, mebbe cole en 
hongry er sick, she feel like she die. Oh, she 
wish she could die jes’ ter save ’im. But she 
tryin’ ter put her trus’ in de good Lawd; en den 
I hayar her sayin’ sorf ’ ter herse’f like: ‘De 
Lawd is his shep’erd, he shall not want” — you 
see, honey, she puts him fus’ all de time,knowin’ 
de true wuds wuz ‘De Lawd is my shep’erd.’ 
Honey, ef you ever gits married, doan’ you love 
no man like dat, fer hit hu’ts— wus’ ’n any 
body pain you kin have. So I says, jes’ ter 
comfort her you know: ‘Hit mout be dat de 
cap’n he not so bad off, en he mout be teckin’ 
he comfort, en who know but he gits out some 
way, en not bein’ able ter git back he git ’im 
er sweetheart ’way off up yander ’mongst dem 
Yankees. I ’s hayrd o’ men doin’ sech ways.’ 
But she stop me quick, en tell me no ! he wuz 
her own, en ez fer gwine off wi’ some oder 
woman — doan’ you tell me no sech thing — she 
’shamed o’ me fer sayin’ hit. So arfter dat she 
drapt off ter sleep, en I sot by de baid, fer I ain’ 
sho’ I best go ter baid en she so po’ly, en so I sot 
dar tell I hayar de chickens crowin’ fer day. 

“I looks out en ’twuz day sho’ ’nuff, so I 
goes ter de do’ en I hayars er noige outside, en 
ef dar warn’ er whole lot er Yankees, en dat 
man Bill Henshaw wuz wi’ ’em ! 


De Profundis. 


151 


u Den I know de tribulations done come fer 
sho’, fer ef de debb’l ain’ sont dat man hayar 
I doan’ know, en ’twuz de debb’l’ s wuck he 
arfter doin’. He seed me en calls me, axin’ is de 
fo’ks in de house. I says yaas, hut de ain’ up yit. 
He say I better roust ’em up quick, fer de gwine 
ter bu’n de house down. I say what ? He say, 
bu’n down de house. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘de Lawd 
sake ! I know you bad man, but w’en you git 
like dis I know you sol’ yo’se’f ter de debb’l 
slio’. He got he mark on you now — er black 
mark.’ But he say he doan’ want no jaw f’m 
me, he mean w’at he say — de gwine bu’n down 
de house en drive out de rats. Den I ax ’im 
who he callin’ rats? en he say we-alls, en hit’s 
lucky ef de doan’ git scotched too. But I arn- 
swer ’im back en say: ‘Looker hayar man, 
you done et at dis table en slep’ onder de cover 
o’ dese baids, en you know de treat you better 
’n you deserves, en why you warn’ treat de 
marster en de miss’s en Miss Sophie so — de 
nuver hu’tted you.’ But he say, ‘Shet up yo’ 
nigger-mouf.’ I say, I ain’ gwine shet up, no 
— not fer de likes er ’im, fer I gittin’ riled den, 
en so I goes on en tells ’im jes’ w’at he is — er 
low-down, mean, houn’ dawg, en ef he wuz er 
sho’ ’nuff dawg he’d stick he tail ’twixt he 
laigs en sneak off, dat he would. En one er 
dem Yankee so’gers say: ‘Seems like she 
’quainted wi’ you, Henshaw.’ En den I bus’ 


15*2 


Southland Stories, 


out ergin en tells ’em yaas, I knows *im— 
knows ’im f ’m de start, en he got no claim on 
we-alls— he meek ’tend he kinfo’ks, en now he 
come hayar — hayar whar he live de bes’ part o’ 
he life, en want ter bu’n down de house w’at 
sheltered ’im w’en he wuz er brat o’ er boy, en 
tu’n out in de winter de bes’ frien’s he ever did 
have — peoples so much better ’n ’im dat de 
would ’n wipe de foots on ’im. 

“Chile I wuz dat mad I doan’ know w’at I say 
mos’, en doan’ you know he pull out er pistil 
en pint hit at me, en I say, ‘You shoot who? 
You dassent shoot !’ But he did do, en one o’ 
dem Yankee so’gers knock he han’ up en de 
bullit went up in de trees. 

“I hayar one o’ dem mens say ter ’nudder one 
he warn’ gwine ter have nuttin’ ter do wi’ sech 
doin’s. He did ’n jine de ahmy ter light wim* 
mens en chill’ ns en ole peoples— he leave dat 
ter de runagates, en w’en er man leave he. own 
country en kinfo’ks ter fight ’g’inst ’em he 
mighty low down. But while he wuz talkin’ I 
see dat Henshaw man ’termined ter do he wust, 
fer he go git er bunch er hay in he han’ ter 
meek de fier. 

“Jes’ den I see de marster en de miss’s at de 
do’, he stan’in’ so dignerfied en stern, en de 
miss’s look like she ’way ’bove dem sort o’ 
peoples, en jes’ ’bine ’em, pale ez def ’, en look» 
in’ like she fall down ’mos’, wuz yo’ ma. 


Be Froeundis, 


153 


u De marster he ain’ say er wild, he jes* look 
at dat Henshaw man— ‘look at ’im like he look 
th’ ugh ’im ’mos’, en w’en he cayarnt Stan’ dat 
look no mo’ he slink ’roun’ de house en de fus’ 
thing I know de back poach wuz in er light 
blaze. He done sot her ter de house he slep’ in 
w’en he wuz er chile ! 

“Well, mun, dat warn’ de wust. He come 
back en he say he gwine ’rest yo’ gran’ pa en 
cayar ’im off er pris’ner. He ax one o’ dem 
Yankee so’gers ter he’p ’im, but de man say he 
warn’ doin’ dat sort o’ fightin’, he mas’ do hit 
he se’f. E11 doan’ you know he tuck er strop 
en tie yo’ po’ gran’pa’s han’s ’hine he back, en 
put ’im on er hoss, en de all ride off cayarin’ 
dat po’ ole man off like he done kill somebody. 

“De miss’s, she ’n Miss Sophie de stan’in’ 
dar — de ain’ say in’ nuttin’ — de got no wuds ter 
say, en nudder is I, fer dat beat me, en I dumb 
den, ’sep’11 I say de een o’ things come now, 
sho’. 

“But I ain’ got no time ter think, ner wuds 
ter spar’, fer ez I look ’roun’ I see yo’ ma ’bout 
hillin’ en yo’ gran’ma try in’ ter hole her up. 
She look so pitiful, all white en trim’lin’, en 
she moan like one o’ dem doves you hayar down 
in de medder. (Lis’n chile, you kin hayar one 
o’ ’em now, moanin’.) Jes’ like dat she moan, 
en her ma ’n me teck her up en cayar her in de 
quarter whar de niggers live, en dar she lay 


154 


Southland Stories. 


wi’ de house bu’nin’ down ter ashes, tell de 
warn’ nuttin’ but de chimbleys lef’, jes’ like 
you see ’em now ef you go dat way. 

“All dat day yo’ ma lay like she harf daid, 
but ’twuds evenin’ she corned ter herse’f en she 
calls her ma en me en ax is de gone. But she 
doan’ seem ter rouse up good someway, but she 
roll her po’ haid f ’m side ter side en jes’ moan. 
De miss’s sot by her en watch, en sometimes 
she meek her teck er s waller er sperrits out’n 
er spoon, but she doan’ rouse up good tell night, 
en she ax me ergin is de gone. So I tells her 
yaas, en good riddens ter ’em too; en ez fer dat 
man Henshaw I do hope dat hoss ’ll frow ’im 
en breck he cussed naick. But she say no, 
Peggy, de Lawd, he de ’venger, we mus’ trus’ 
’im — hit’s all in he han’s. Den I say I wish 
’t wuz in my han’s en he would ’n trouble no- 
body no mo’. But she say hesh, Peggy, en 
den lay quiet. 

“Now hit gittin’ dark en I light de can’le. 
Yo’ gran’ ma settin’ by de baid weepin’. How 
she gwine he’p hit? Mr. John Temple, he 
teckin’ pris’ner, de ole marster tecken off by 
dat man Henshaw, de home bu’n down, en she, 
po’ chile ! layin’ dar on my baid, in de nigger’s 
quarter ! ’T wuz pitiful, sho’, en ter dis day I 
doan’ see how de good Lawd ’lowed hit, ’sep’n 
hit ’t wuz ’pinted. 

“Pres’n’ly she calls me ergin — yo’ gran’ma 


De Profundis. 


i55 


gone out do’s— ‘Peggy, is you dar ?’ ‘Hayar I 
is,’ I say, ‘right by you.’ She say, ‘Peggy, I 
feels so weak en trimbly, somehow I feels like 
I cayarnt stan’ hit. Peggy, ef I should die in 
dis trouble I wan’ you ter ’member jes’ w’at I 
says.’ I say, ‘Yaas ’m.’ ‘ ’Tismy wudtermy 

dear, dear husbanh John woan’ die — he too 
good er man ter die — leastways up dar in dat 
pris’n, en w’en he come back — he cornin’ sho’ — 
Peggy, you mus’ tell ’im fer me dat my fus’ 
thought en my lars’ thought wuz fer my darlin’ 
husban’. I prays fer ’im day en night, en I 
love ’im so I ’d be so glad ter teck his place en 
lef ’im go free.’ 

“Den she dose er leetle while like she sleepin’, 
en rouse up ’gin en ax me han’ her leetle baby 
(dat wuz you, honey), so she kin see you. En 
I lays you in her arms en she looks at you so 
fond, en den all of er sudden she calls out loud — 

“ ‘John ! John ! he on de way home — I feels 
’im cornin’ !’ 

“En den she faint clean erway. I teck you 
up en lay you on de baid, en honey, you wuz 
rale good en drapt right off ter sleep, jes’ like 
you ’d been nussin’. Yo’ ma she lay dat way 
fer long time en den she calls her ma en tell 
her she know John wuz cornin’ — she could feel 
’im somewhar near her — mebbe dost by. 

“Dat skeered me, hit soun’ so strange, I 
’feard she gwine oufc’n her mine. But she lay 


Southland Stories, 


156 

mighty quiet en tells her ma she feels r fm Oil 
de way somewhar — she say she done felt dat 
way ’to w’en he cornin’ — he on de way ter see 
her ’n her chile, en mebbe she woan’ die tell 
he git hayar. But she say ter me — somehow 
she always tells me de love- wuds — ‘Peggy , I do 
love ’im so I think ef I wuz daid en laid out en 
he come en kiss me like he done w’en he went 
erway, I ’d wake up at de touch o’ dem lips en 
de soun’ o’ dat voice — wake up en come ter life 
ergin. 

“She look so ti y ed now her ma say she mus’ 
? n talk no mo’, but I hayar her sayin’ onder her 
bref — ‘he cornin’, my own sweet’ — ’t wuz some 
song- wuds she uster sing ter ’im w’en de wus 
eo’tin’. 

“De miss’s she laid down on de oder side de 
baid, en 1 settin’ dar noddin’ en thinkin’, en 
bimeby I wakes up en I looks at her, en I calls 
de miss’s: ‘Quick, ’in 1 fer Gawd’s sake, look !’ 
Dar she lay, daid !’ 

“Marster John Temple he tecken pris’ner, de 
ole marster he cayard off by dat man Henshaw ? 
de ole house bu’n down, dat po’ baby lay in’ on 
de baid, jes’ borned, en yo’ ma layin’ dar daid I 
Sho’ly de Lawd he done fersake us now. 

“I calls Dan — de po’ miss’s she broke up so 
she ’mos’ daid herse’f, en de wuz nobody but 
Dan on de place, ’sep’n ole crazy Car’line, en 
she so crazy she no ’count — so I boun’ do sum- 


Be pROEtnsrms. 


i57 


fin\ I calls Dan en say he got do sumfin’. He 
sech er lazy, wuf less nigger, but dis time he do 
right well, en I ’mos’ fergive ’im he laz’ness 
en I tells ’im he mus’ do sumfin’. He ax me 
w’at? I tells ’im I doan’ know, but he mus’ 
do hit right erway. You see, chile, I wus jes’ 
wared out, en ’mos’ ’s tract ed myse’f. So I 
tells Dan he mus’ do — I doan’ know w’at, but 
he mus’ do hit right erway, sho’. He mus’ git 
at hit now. He say, all right, but w’en I ax 
Mm w’at he gwine do he say he dunno, but he 
reckens he’ll go down ter de ole wharf by de 
creek en mebbe he see somebody dat would tell 
’im sumfin’. Well, I say, I doan’ know, I ain’ 
got no sense lef’, so go ’long en do w’at you 
gwine do, quick. 

“I corned back in de quarter en I study in’. 
Somehow I cayarnt teck hit in dat yo’ ma daid 
— hit ain’ so sho’ — de ’s some mistake some- 
how, do ef de Lawd mecks mistakes how de 
res’ gwine jedge. I speaks ter de miss’s, yo’ 
gran’ma, but she so wared out she hardly hayar 
w’at I say. She jes’ sot dar en moan. Den I 
’members I hayar somebody say dat ef people 
wuz daid you could tell by hoi’ in’ er lookin’ 
glars ’fo’ de face, en I try dat, en sho’ ’nuff de 
wuz jes’ de leetles’ bref on de glars. Den I 
’members ’nudder thing — I hayar ’em say ef er 
body wuz daid, er cole er fier would ’n blister de 
skin. W'ell, hit hu’t me mightily ter bu’n yo’ 


158 Southland Stories. 

ma’s arm, but I did dat — I tecks er live cole in 
my fingers, en mun, hit ’twuz er hot one — en 
I lays hit on her po’ white arm. Den I waits. 
Sho’ ’nuff de wuz er blister, en I calls her ma 
en tells her, but she seem like she stunted like 
by de ’flictions — she hardly teck hit in. She 
sutt’nly wuz low down, en no wonder. 

“Well, so pars de night en de day breakin’ 
en yo’ ma layin’ dar still. She looks awful 
white, but somehow she doan’ look jes’ like 
peoples I seed w’at wuz daid, en ez de sun rise 
en tetch her cheek I think I see jes’ de leetles’ 
bit o’ red dar, but I ain’ sho.’ I wared out 
myse’f en ’bout ready ter gin hit all up. En 
den I think who ’s gwine teck cayar de baby ? 
Den I so ti’ed I drap off ter sleep, en w’en I 
wake I hayars Dan ’n yo’ pa.” 

Dan’s Story. 

“Dat Peggy, she sutt’nly is onreasonable nig- 
ger. Hayar she done sont me out she doan’ 
know wliar, en she doan’ know fer w’at, en 
how in de name o’ de Lawd I gwine git he’p, 
en she doan’ even say w’at sort o’ he’p she 
want. Well, I say, I gwine down ter de creek, 
en mebbe I see somebody dar kin tell me sum- 
fin’. Well, suh, I s’ pose hit warn’ mo’ ’n er 
mile er so down de road, w’en I see er man 
cornin’ over de hill. I say, dar now, dar’s 
somebody now kin tell me. I ’specks dat de 


De Profundis. 


i59 


right man now. I ke’p on ’twuds ’im en w’en 
I gits closter hit seems like I see dat man ’fo’, 
but I cayarnt rightly place ’im. He all rag- 
getty en got er long beard en hayar en he look 
like er furriner. En w’en I gits dost up, who 
you s’ pose hit ’twuz? ’Twuz Marster John 
Temple come back — he done got de excliange- 
ment en come back — too late ! He tells me 
’bout de exchangement o’ de pris’ners en how 
de brings ’im back ez fer ez City P’int, en he 
walk de res’ o’ de way. O’ co’se he ax me 
right off how de all is. Now I is in er fix, I 
say ter myse’f, fer how I gwine tell ’im all dat 
happen. So I say, ‘Dat man Henshaw been 
back.’ ‘Well,’ he say. ‘En he tooken de ole 
marster pris’ner,’ I say. ‘Well,’ he say, en he 
grit he teef like bitin’ sumfin’. ‘En de bu’n 
down de ole house.’ ‘Well,’ he say, en he grip 
my arm like I doin’ de bu’nin’. ‘En de’s er 
leetle gal-baby,’ I say. W’en he hayar dat he 
lef go my arm en look like he feel sort o’ good, 
en he ax me right off how’s de mother o’ de 
chile. I tells ’im de all mighty bad off, she 
mighty low down, she so skeered by dat man, 
en de teckin’ off de ole marster, en de dre’fful 
cayarin’s on. I ’feard tell ’im no mo’, ’kase ef 
I tell ’im ’bout he wife bein’ daid ’tw’d kill 
’im too, so I jes’ say I ain’ seed much o’ de 
fo’ks, de white fo’ks wuz in de quarter en de 
warn’ much room, en I stays ’bout de stable 


i6o Southland Stories. 

mos’ de time. I jes’ lef’ dat part ter provi- 
dence, ’kase ef prov’dence tell ’im some way, 
er Peggy tells ’im — jes’ so he fin’s hit out wid- 
out me. I doan’ want no ’sponsibility like dat. 
Dat fer de Lawd. 

“Well, suh, he step out like he runnin’ er 
race. I think he teck two yards at er stride. 
I had ter run ter keep up, en den I lef’ behime. 
He gits ter de place en he gin one look at de 
chimbleys en de ashes — he jes’ tu’n he haid 
widout stoppin’ — en he comes ter de quarter 
do’. Peggy, she see ’im en she say, ‘Dar, now, 
too late, too late !’ 

“De ole miss’s she corned out, en she ’mos’ 
fall down, but he ketch her en she sort o’ whis- 
per in he year, en he tu’n so white en trimble 
so I ’feard he fall down hisse’f, en I ketch ’im 
by de arm. He ain’ sayin’ nuttin’ ’t all dis 
time but jes’ Gawd ! Gawd ! Dat wuz all. 
Peggy she step up ’n tell ’im he mus’ ’n cayar 
on so, en she tryin’ tell ’im w’at she doin’ 
’sperimentin’ ter see ef she daid, but he look 
like he did ’n hayar. 

“Pres’n’ly he say: ‘Lef me see her !’ He 
voice soun’ like hit ’way off somewhar, down 
he thote, Peggy all de time tryin’ tell ’im how 
she thought *t wuz er trance er sumfin’, but he 
doan’ hayar, so he goes inter de quarter, en dar 
he wife layin’ on de baid, she en her leetle 
baby — ’t wuz you, chile. 


De Profundity 


161 

**Mun, ’t wuz er pity ter see dat po’ man. 
He look like I doan’ know w’at — I cayarnt tell 
you w’ah He shakin’ like he got er chill, en 
he moan so awful. But pres’n’ly I see he stoop 
over en I see he han’s all trim’lin’ en he mouf 
wuckin’, en he kiss her on de mou£ 

“I thought she wuz daid, de miss’s thought 
she wuz daid, her po’ husban’ thought she wuz 
daid — only Peggy she hoi’ out ter dis day dat 
she know ’t wuz er trance ’r some sech. 

“She open her eyes, dat woman, en I so 
skeered I feel like I see er ghost — she retch out 
her han’s en she say: 

“ ‘John! John! I knowed he wuz cornin’ — 
did ’n I tell you so, Peggy ? Did ’n I say dat 
ef I wuz laid out daid en my dear husban’ wuz 
ter come en kiss me I’d wake up?’ En she 
look like er angel layin dar. 

“I gits out o’ de quarter en doan’ know de 
res’, en Peggy she woan’ tell me much, only 
’t wuz bes’ ter leave de white fo’ks ter dese’ves. 

“En doan’ you know, suh, ’twarn’ mo’ ’n 
two days ’fo’ some Yankees ride up ter de quar- 
ter en ef de ole marster warn’ wi’ ’em ! — de 
done fotch ’im back. En ’t wuz good ter hayar 
’im tell how de done w’en de got ter de camp. 
He say de cunnel ax dat Henshaw man w’at all 
dis means? En he tells ’im. En de cunnel 
say ter ’im: ‘You say I sont you out ter bu’n 
down houses en tu’n out ole wimmen en sick 


162 


Southland Stories. 


fo’ks out in de cole?’ (You see some o’ dem 
Yankees rid on erhead en tells de cunnel. ) En 
he say he doan’ want no sech trash ’roun’ he 
quarter, en he better teck hisse’f off, less ’n 
hit mout be wusser fer ’im. Dat w’at he say. 
En he say ter de men: ‘Teck dat po’ ole man 
en cayar ’im back ter he peoples, en gin ’im 
sumfin’ ter eat too.’ Yaas, suh, he did dat, so 
de ole marster say. En he say de warn’ many 
o’ dem ole fo’ks lef ’ en ’t wuz er pity, fer he 
knowed ’em en wuz kin ter some o’ ’em, en de 
wuz good peoples, de ole Ferginians, ef de wuz 
on de wrong side. Dat ’s w’at de ole marster 
say de cunnel say, en he say mo’ ’n dat — he 
notice w’en de ole Ferginians fall f’m de ole 
faith de ain’ much good. He ain’ gwine trus’ 
’em no mo’. 

“So dat’s all, en me ’n Peggy wuck fer our 
fo’ks — wuck hard, en Marster John Temple go 
back in de ahmy, en hayar de all is, on he pa’s 
ole plantation, en you de baby guerl Peggy ’n 
me ’s tellin’ ’bout.” 


THE OLD CHOIR-MASTER. 


r I ^HE old Choir-Master was late that night. 

He was returning from the city, tired 
out with his journey, and it was after dark on 
this particular Saturday night. He walked 
briskly along the village streets, under the 
shade of the maples — shade so thick that it 
made the road quite dark; and, passing through 
the hamlet, now quiet and still, he was just in 
front of the old church, at the gate, when he 
paused for a moment, looking down the long 
walk leading from the gate to the church door. 
The gate was now locked and bolted, but 
through it he had seen many gay weddings 
pass, yes, and sad funerals too; and as he 
peeped in through the iron bars which shut in 
the city of the dead — gates through which those 
passing in their coffins never return, they now 
sleeping the final slumber of the just as he 
hoped until the resurrection, he thought of 
many things. In the dim light he saw the gray 
tombstones, the moss-covered walls of the old 
church, the graves, some of them of his own 
kin, and as he stood there thinking of the music 
he was to play on the old organ to-morrow, he 
heard a voice — a girl’s voice it seemed to him, 
a strangely sweet voice 


164 


Southland Stories. 


“Can you tell me where the old church is?” 

Turning, the old Choir-Master saw standing 
in the shadow a boy and a girl, he thought the 
girl might he sixteen, the boy younger. She 
spoke in a strangely sweet tone, and somehow 
there was that in the tone which thrilled on his 
ear like some music heard long ago and all but 
forgotten — heard now as only the shadow of a 
memory — what was it and who ? 

“This is the old church just before you,” re- 
plied the old Choir-Master. “We are standing 
before the gate and the building in the gloom 
yonder is the old, old church.” 

“I thank you, sir, so much. I was afraid I 
would not find it, and it is my last chance to 
see it. And this is really the old church ! May 
I ask you, sir, if there is a way by which I may 
get closer to it ?” 

“Yes,” the old Choir-Master said, “the gate 
is locked, but there is a broken place in the 
hedge — this way,” and he stepped in the direc- 
tion indicated, leading the pair through the gap 
in the hedge, and, stepping over graves, some 
with tombstones to mark them, some without, 
some sunken down, and a few newly made — 
they stood close under the massive walls. 

“I am so glad we met you, sir, and so dearly 
glad to put my hand on these venerable walls. 
It is very old I suppose, sir?” 

“Very old,” replied the old Choir-Master. 


The Old Choir-Master. 165 

And he told them when it was builded, and of 
the tradition that the bricks in the walls were 
brought on ship-board from England, and of 
the old Colonial days when the gentry for 
miles around came with their wives and fair 
daughters to worship, and of how George 
Washington was a vestryman of the parish, 
and of an old lady, very old indeed, who long 
since died, who had sat on the knee of the Gen- 
eral, and had seen his carriage with six horses 
and outriders drive to the church door in the 
days of long ago. He told also of the Reverend 
Bryan Fairfax, the first rector of the church, 
himself a grandson of the Lord Fairfax who 
fought, first under the first King Charles, and 
then under Cromwell. All this and much more 
he told, standing under the dark walls, and in 
the deep shade of the great tulip-tree that over- 
shadowed them. 

“I love to put my hands on its dear old 
walls,” said the girl, “and, sir, do you think 
we could get inside the building? I should so 
love to see the interior.” 

A thing the old Choir-Master said was very 
easy. “I will go to my house and get the key 
and a lantern and let you in. That is my house 
just yonder under the trees on the hill — you 
can see the lights in the window.” 

“Yes,” so exclaimed the girl, “I see; and I 
remember the light that old Mr. Peggotty used 


1 66 


Southland Stories. 


to set in the window for poor little Emily — she 
who returned no more to the old boat-house; 
the light reminds me of that.” 

And almost while she was speaking the old 
Choir-Master had gone and returned, not find- 
ing the key, he said, hut bringing the lantern, 
and — this to the boy: 

“Climb up on the ledge here, put your hand 
inside the broken pane of glass. You will feel 
the window-catch: so you can open the window, 
and when inside open the door.” 

Up climbed the boy and in a twinkling was 
inside, but before he had time to do the rest of 
his mission up scrambled the girl as well, as 
nimbly as a kitten, and creeping through the 
open sash, stood within, a very fair picture in- 
deed, and one that made even the heart of the 
old Choir-Master heat a little faster. She was 
a blue-eyed girl, fair of face, with all the sweet- 
ness of an opening bud, a beauteous vision of 
girlhood when girlhood is at its best and sweet- 
est, with cheeks red from the exercise, and eyes 
and mouth laughing. 

Deep eyes they were, laughing at the corners, 
deeper in the middle, and down deeper still the 
girl-soul seemed to peep out as if astonished at 
the world she saw. Soulful eyes, a fair, sweet 
picture framed in the window, a picture such 
as eyes never grow too old to feast on or fail of 
adoration so long as sight endures. 


The Old Choir-Master. 167 

So, not to be outdone by youth and beauty, 
the old Choir-Master himself made shift to 
scramble up the wall and through the window, 
and all three stood inside. 

Then the girl turned toward the chancel and 
walked, reverently so it seemed to the old 
Choir-Master, to the rail, and for a moment 
seemed absorbed in thought, then knelt softly 
down as if in silent prayer, while the old Choir- 
Master and the boy stood looking wonderingly 
on. Then she arose, and turning toward them, 
spoke: 

“And this is the place ! this is the hallowed 
spot where my dear father and mother were 
married; here were spoken the words, ‘till 
death do us part.’ ” 

And then she told a most strange and curious 
story of how her father was a student of the- 
ology at the Theological Seminary not far away, 
and of how in the days before the civil war he, 
with others of the students came to the old 
church to read the service, and of how he met 
and wooed her mother, and of the impending 
war, making all things troubled and in doubt; 
told of the simple wedding in the old church, 
even while the first guns were booming that 
announced the invasion of the State of Vir- 
ginia; told of his leaving his bride at the church- 
door, he going into the army, with a regiment 
of troops from his native State of South Caro- 


1 68 


Southland Stories. 


lina and she back to her home, they seeing each 
other no more until the war ended; told of the 
four years of suspense and anguish, while she 
waited and watched and prayed for his return, 
and how finally he did come and took her away 
to his Carolina home, “where,” said the girl, 
“I was born. 

“He would come back, my mother was sure, 
if his life was spared, and such was her simple 
faith that she made ready what she could in 
way of preparation, like the Virgins in the 
Bible story, not knowing when the bridegroom 
would come, but always ready to meet him. 
He had a little church in his native State, and 
I, who am travelling on a strange errand — I 
may not tell you just what — passing near by, 
felt that I could not let the chance pass of see- 
ing what you have given me the pleasure of 
seeing to-night. I thank you so much, sir, and 
will you not give me your name that I may 
always remember your kindness?” 

He gave her the name, and she now looked 
bewildered as if that name was associated with 
something she had heard, but she said nothing 
of that then. 

“We have, as a matter of course, always 
associated our name with that of Virginians,” 
she went on, “and I do think, sir, from all I 
have known that you have among you the 
noblest types of manhood and the most beau- 


The Old Choir-Master. 169 

tiful examples of womanhood to be found on 
earth. I delight to think that my dear mother 
was born in your grand old State, and that it 
is thus far my heritage also.” 

Now it came back to the old Choir-Master — 
the voice and the face. He knew now — ah ! 
how well he knew. He could tell; but not 
yet, not just yet ! The boy meantime had wan- 
dered off into the churchyard outside. 

“My mother,” the girl resumed, “has told 
me much concerning these old times, days so 
troublous and strange to us peaceful folk; and 
do you know, sir, that I have a sort of regret 
that I was born too late, and that if I could 
have lived in those old days of schooling in the 
more heroic virtues I should have been the bet- 
ter for it. I take it that only such training can 
make men and women such as then lived. Nor 
can I tell you how much I admire your grand 
heroes— Lee, Jackson, Stuart and others. It 
seems to me that it is the vice of our time that 
we have no men save those who are striving 
after material wealth. But I am sure you tire 
of my prattle, kind sir, talking of things of 
which I have only heard.” 

“Tell me more— more,” said the old Choir- 
Master. 

“I have not much to tell, sir, only that my 
mother’s history, like so many others, had in 
it a strain of tragedy. During the war this 


170 


Southland Stories. 


part of the State was a vast camp of Union 
soldiers. They inevitably came in contact with 
the residents here, and many of them, at least 
the officers, made the acquaintance of my moth- 
er’s family. She had a sister, wilful, imperious, 
handsome, with the most captivating manners, 
and to her a colonel of one of the enemy’s reg- 
iments made advances. The family made en- 
quiries as to this man and ascertained that he 
had a wife in a distant Western city. We told 
her this but she laughed in our faces, being as 
I have said wilful and headstrong; and I fear 
without much else of sentiment, save a sort of 
ambition to do daring and doubtful things. I 
think she must have resembled Beatrice, in that 
wonderful book of Mr. Thackeray’s — Henry 
Esmond; you have read the strange story no 
doubt, sir. 

“One morning she was missing, and an old 
servant of the family reported her as having 
been seen with this colonel; that was all. My 
mother tells of my grandmother as being 
crushed, as indeed she might well be; the blow 
was an awful one and she sank under it, dying 
of a broken heart. Gone, they knew not where, 
gone to a fate they knew too well. 

“Late in the war there came a letter from 
her. It bore no date, but had the postmark of 
a distant Northern city. She wrote only to say 
that she begged her people to consider her as 


The Old Choir-Master. 171 

dead. She had repented, so she said, repented 
so bitterly, but it was too late to amend the 
past and now, fast dying of consumption, she 
waited the close of a life she would have ended 
herself long ago but for the fear of a hereafter. 
That was all, save a humility and lowliness in 
her tone which gave them to hope that she had 
indeed a repentance that would not need to be 
repented of. 

“But I dare say I tire you, sir. And you 
over whose head has passed so many winters — 
you I am sure know many such stories, full of 
tragedy and of pathos, had you time to tell me. 
’Tis a sad world, sir, but with much of love-lit 
pleasure in it after all.” 

The girl made pause, as if waiting for the old 
man to speak. He seemed strangely affected 
in some way at her simple narrative, and more 
than once seemed to suppress a sob. Turning 
to the organ, he touched a few keys, making 
random chords of a minor strain, and then said, 
standing there in the dim lantern’s light: 

“Child, I knew all this — knew your dear 
mother and all her troubles and joys too. When 
I heard the first tones of your voice it affected 
me strangely, and I must tell you why. 

“Do you remember that couplet of Tenny- 
son’s: 

‘ ’T is better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all ?’ 


172 


Southland Stories. 


“I was a young man in the days you tell of, 
and was then, as now, the organist of this old 
church. Among the worshippers in constant 
attendance was your dear mother, Emily 
Mason. She sat just where you are standing — 
the arrangement of the pews was different then. 
It would be as impossible for me to forget her, 
she, with her innocent face and shy, retiring 
manners, as to forget life itself. She teas my 
life, my all. I was a shy, timid youth, devoted 
to music, knowing little of the world, a 
dreamer. But as I sat at my seat at the organ 
from Sabbath to Sabbath, I fear I worshipped 
Emily Mason instead of the great God whose 
creatures we are. Not daring to speak my 
passion, I was silent month after month, until 
one fateful day — I could never forget that day — 
your father came to the church to officiate. He 
had that rich, deep, sympathetic voice I have 
rarely heard save from that hero of heroes, 
Robert Lee — he whom we Virginians all wor- 
ship. It was a voice that only a musician could 
appreciate. I watched your mother. Her eyes 
were fixed on the speaker, her color came and 
went, and she looked as if under a spell. 

“In that hour I knew my fate — my hope was 
as dead as the sleepers in the graves about us — 
that is, if I had ever dared hope at all. That 
nameless something which now-a-days they 
call mental telepathy was established between 


The Old Choir-Master. 173 

the two — in each other’s eyes they read each 
other’s hearts, and I knew in that hour that 
your mother loved your father from that mo- 
ment. 

“There is little else to tell. I played the 
wedding music, controlling myself I know not 
how, until the end, then wandering out into 
the woods flung myself down on the sod in 
despair — my love alive — my hopes dead ! 

“That’s all my child, and you should not tell 
this, especially to your mother, for her gentle 
heart might possibly be pained by the recital 
of a story she never dreamed of. Not even to 
my mother or my sister have I ever told this, 
and it is well that its knowledge rests with you. ’ ’ 

He ceased, and silently the pair — the girl 
seemingly awe-struck — walked to the door. 
They stood for a moment under the dim star- 
light in this summer’s night, then, very rever- 
ently the old Choir-Master spoke: 

“Child, may I pray with you?” 

The girl knelt on the green sod — it was a 
grave’s sod — and the old man laid his hands on 
her head, speaking the beautiful words of the 
Confirmation Office: 

“ ‘Defend, O Lord, this, thy child, with thy 
heavenly grace; that she may continue thine 
forever; and daily increase in thy Holy Spirit 
more and more, until she come unto thy ever- 
lasting kingdom. Amen.’ ” 


174 


Southland Stories. 


The girl arose from her knees, turning to- 
ward the old Choir-Master, laying one hand on 
his shoulder she tip-toed and kissed him on the 
cheek. With a good-bye she went her way 
into the night and the darkness. 

But before she left him she told of her jour- 
neyings. She had been North to find, if possi- 
ble, the grave of the erring sister of the mother, 
for with those who truly love death does not 
sunder nor even crime destroy the ties that 
bind them. She felt, so she said, that could 
she find the grave of her erring aunt she would 
mark it as in duty bound, feeling that somehow 
the dead one might rest more quietly if the 
spirit could know that the living remembered 
it in pity and forgiveness. Her quest was in 
vain, but she knew her mother would feel bet- 
ter for the attempt. It was this errand that 
brought her to Virginia. 

And the old Choir-Master went his way to his 
home, his heart filled with mingled emotions. 
When sleep came to him he dreamed that 
the blue eyes of Emily Mason’s child were 
watching over him — an angel guard in his 
slumbers, and he dreamed that he was thankful 
and comforted. 

So passed the summer days, and the leaves 
fell and the flowers faded, the season of Christ- 
mas-tide was near, and the old Choir-Master 
was sick. On the morning of the joyful day 


The Old Choir-Master. 175 

he sat in his chair by the window, listening to 
the carols of the children as they sang in the 
church, and a silent tear stole down his cheek. 
He wanted once more to be with them, but it 
might not be so. And when the children of his 
sister came from church, there was a present 
for him — a Christmas-gift — it came through the 
mail. It was that most charming of all Mr. 
Thomas Nelson Page’s stories, “The Old Gen- 
tleman of the Black Stock,” and inside the 
book was a card with the name of Emily Mason 
written on it, and on the reverse side the words: 

“A Christmas greeting from the girl who saw 
the old church with you in the summer days.” 

And the old Choir-Master spent the day 
dreaming over the book and of his old-time 
love, and, was comforted. 



























































































































































































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